


Sexual Healing

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: Pson/Lost Girl fusion [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Lost Girl Fusion, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anonymous Sex, Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Double Penetration in One Hole, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Endgame Gil/Malcolm, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e05 The Trip, Episode: s01e06 All Souls and Sadists, Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Feral Malcolm Bright, Idiots in Love, Incubus Malcolm Bright, Incubus Martin Whitly, Jake the Trainer is his own warning, Loosely Follows Canon, M/M, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell Friendship, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship, Malcolm Bright/Original Characters as one off sexual encounters ONLY, Miscommunication, Multi, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Episode: s01e11 Alone Time, Requited Unrequited Love, Slutty Malcolm Bright, Succubi & Incubi, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Werewolf Gil Arroyo, sexual healing, the other pairings are one offs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Gil smiles, sharp teeth flashing white, genuine happiness spreading across his face. “Hey, city boy.” He’s just as broad and imposing as he was the last time they saw each other in person, but Malcolm has never been uncomfortable around him and suspects he never will. He’s built for authority, to protect his pack.And Malcolm became pack ages ago.~In a supernatural world a la TV's Lost Girl, Malcolm is an incubus. He comes back home after being fired from the FBI and tries to find a place for himself in the community that once was home while juggling the feelings he's had for Gil for years.This is a fusion with the show Lost Girl, but you really don't need to know anything about it to read this fic.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel/Tally Tarmel
Series: Pson/Lost Girl fusion [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781872
Comments: 52
Kudos: 85





	1. Pilot

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KateSamantha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateSamantha/gifts).



> The power structure is loosely taken from Lost Girl, as well as the details of the kinds of fae. Because of this, some of the depictions of different creatures may not match what you know from mythology. I based them off of show canon, and their abilities and such will be described in the narrative. 
> 
> Three of the four chapters are already written! I'm currently working on the final chapter, and I'll be posting them every few days until the fic is complete. Each one will loosely follow a specific episode.

Coming back to the city is… odd. He walks down familiar streets, Ainsley at his side, and takes in the changes. This territory used to be their grandfather’s. It was in Milton hands for generations, not by virtue of blood but by their tenacity. Every Milton successor gained the title of Ash fair and square, from one of the first to settle in the States right up to their grandfather. Maybe that was a sign. He was the last Milton after all, the name dying when his only child chose to take her husband’s. 

Malcolm doubts a Milton descendant will ever become Ash again. Not after the last was overthrown unanimously. They went from being revered in the light community to forced out on the fringes, distrusted and disliked, all in the course of an evening. 

“I’m glad you’re back, bro,” Ainsley says casually, bumping his shoulder with hers. There’s something more there, and he knows that things in the community are still rough for her here. She’s grateful for strength in numbers, even though it means he’ll be subjected to it all again. 

Martin Whitly is to blame for that. A dark natured fae successfully hiding themselves as a light fae was unheard of before him. His arrest and the national incident it became shook both sides of the fae community. 

It’s part of the reason Malcolm left in the first place. He declared light as soon as he could, knowing deep in his bones that there was no way he could be dark, even if he wondered sometimes. The light fae looked at him and thought it enough to shake his confidence. They assumed he would be like his father, that he was hiding his true nature from them all. He was the eldest, the child who had the most exposure to him, and an incubus like the man, too. He stuck to him like glue before the arrest, soaked up everything his father was willing to tell him, and they all knew it. _Of course_ he would take after him. 

The dark fae looked at him, too. They wanted to see the darkness there as much as their light counterparts did. They wanted him to declare dark. They never really had The Surgeon, but they could have The Surgeon’s son. When he did declare light, publicly aligning himself with his mother and the new Ash, they scoffed, keeping their eyes on him just in case. 

“Me, too,” he tells her, surprising himself with the honesty there. He _is_ happy to be back. There’s a part of him that feels like he’s proved himself. He made it through the academy, he became an agent. He put away several killers, stopping them before they could add more bodies to their resume, and he used the skills his mother imparted on him as a Milton. 

A lot of the Milton line were of sirens, praised for their voices and integrity. Some of it could be taught, though only a siren would _really_ be able to implement most of it. They used their abilities to stop disputes and settle matters with authority. Both his mother and Ainsley inherited the siren gene. It didn’t stop the community from looking down on them now, but he always had the feeling there was doubt there, too, as if by virtue of being Milton sirens, they were too hard to completely distrust. 

Malcolm wasn’t so lucky.

So he left. He got permission from the Ash to apply to the FBI, and once he was there, the man put him in touch with his counterpart closest to Quantico. Malcolm worked hard to prove that he was trustworthy, that he wanted nothing more than to find criminals and deal with them, fae or not. His hope was that the distance would give his mother’s reputation room to breathe.

“Mom will be happy, too,” Ainsley says slyly, looking at him across her coffee cup, knowing full well that he hasn’t said a word to the older siren yet. “You’ve been missed at the weekly family dinners.” 

Which means he wasn’t very successful. Their mother should be holding dinner parties, attending fundraisers, playing the game like she was taught to as the Milton heir. If she’s only exercising those skills on Ainsley… he ducks his head. 

Martin Whitly, a no name from an unknown family, fit in initially with his charm. He was skilled at taking the energy he needed in small doses through the act of being himself, and whatever he couldn’t get that way, he was more than able to get from a siren without hurting them. On the outside, it seemed like he and Jessica Milton were the perfect pair. Their children, whether they would be sirens, incubi, or succubi, would be powerhouses in the community. When they had one of both kinds, well, everyone thought they were set. One of the Whitly children would take over for their grandfather, undoubtedly. The other would be their right hand.

The problem was that Martin wasn’t _just_ using that charm on his patients, calming them and reassuring them they were in good hands. He was using it to lure in his victims, a decidedly not light fae thing to do. In another life, maybe Malcolm would have used his own charm as freely as his father does, would let it radiate off him when he needed a quick feeding, would work his way up through the light community until he’d be a clear candidate for Ash. But now he uses it sparingly, aware of everyone’s eyes on him. No one trusted him in DC, not really. His father’s reputation followed him everywhere.

Even the Ash here kept tabs on him while he was gone. The man already knew he was fired when he called the week before and was similarly unsurprised with his decision to move back. It isn’t that the Ash doesn’t like him. In fact, if Malcolm has to guess, he’d say the man respects him to some degree. He accepted Malcolm’s decision with ease and told him to expect to be approached once he was physically in the city again. He didn’t set up a time or a place, just assured him someone would find him.

Which is why Malcolm isn’t surprised to see Gil Arroyo waiting for him and Ainsley. The werewolf is both the Ash’s hold on the NYPD and his best tracker.

Gil smiles, sharp teeth flashing white, genuine happiness spreading across his face. “Hey, city boy.” He’s just as broad and imposing as he was the last time they saw each other in person, but Malcolm has never been uncomfortable around him and suspects he never will. He’s built for authority, to protect his pack. 

And Malcolm became pack ages ago. 

“Of course he sent you,” the incubus says, lips curling up. He lets his gaze linger. It’s been years since he was in the same city as Gil, and the pictures he’s seen didn’t do him justice. His goatee is threaded with gray, the creases of his face deeper, but, as a werewolf, Malcolm knows he’s just as strong, just as dangerous.

Gil stands still under his scrutiny. He’s used to it. His ease fosters a bit of guilt in Malcolm’s gut as always, though he knows Gil probably isn’t faking it. Having known each other for a long time before his puberty hit, before he really started to come into his heritage, the werewolf understands and accepts his nature. It isn’t unusual for Malcolm’s eyes to go sultry, for his mouth to shift into a smirk, for his entire being to ooze lust. Gil pulls him into a hug despite it all. 

Behind them, Ainsley snorts. If the sound is loud enough for Malcolm to hear, it’s more than loud enough for Gil to, and she knows it. Of course, she also knows that his reactions are less due to his genetics and more due to his life long crush on Gil. 

When they part, Malcolm rolls his eyes at her. “I have a meeting to attend, Ains. I’ll see you later.” They both know that the Ash takes priority. 

She nods. “You have exactly one day to tell Mom you’re back before I do it for you, bro.”

Gil huffs a laugh.

“Deal,” Malcolm says. Twenty-four hours will give him enough time to get settled at least.

~

It may have been _years_ since he was at the Ash’s compound last, but Malcolm’s sharp enough to realize they aren’t heading there. “I thought the compound was in the same old place,” he says, amused.

Gil gives him another sharp toothed grin. “I think the Ash can wait. I have a murder I’d like another set of eyes on.”

The words fill him with warmth. Being a werewolf means that Gil has all of the advantages he needs as a detective. He most certainly doesn’t need Malcolm’s help, FBI trained or not, but he’s still asking, bringing him in just like old times, just like when Malcolm first indicated he was serious about the field he wanted to pursue. Gil trusts his instincts, his skills.

If Malcolm uses it as an opportunity to breeze through the scene with just more than a hint of the cockiness and confidence of an incubus, neither of them say anything. He doubts Gil is looking, but he doesn’t let it get him down. 

Another fae, as sturdy as the werewolf and no doubt just as light aligned, gives him a skeptical look. He’s calm, though miffed about Malcolm’s presence. He has to be skilled. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be on Gil’s team. Whatever his abilities are, however, he’s not using them now.

Malcolm takes all of him in — the muscled form, the no nonsense edge on his face, the way he defers to Gil with ease. He tilts his head and bites his lip, aware that he probably looks like he’s about to devour him. “A tracker, right? But not just any kind of tracker fae.”

The detective glances at his boss. “What is he doing here?”

“On the offensive, too,” Malcolm muses. “So you’re used to having to justify your place on the team. Are you a typically dark aligned fae?” _A tracker_ , he thinks. A dark aligned tracker… _ah_. “Boraro, maybe?” Gil wouldn’t care about how the rest of his family chose to live their lives. He’d only care about the man in front of him. 

Not to mention that having a fae capable of making force fields would be quite useful on the force. That alone would have the Ash approving the addition to his team. 

The detective bristles. “You got a problem with that?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t like each other,” Gil mutters. “JT, this is former Special Agent Malcolm Bright. Bright, this is Detective JT Tarmel.”

“No problem,” Malcolm assures him, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. If anything, he’s intrigued. “We could have used a Boraro back when I was in fugitive recovery.”

JT gives him a dismissive look. 

Used to it, Malcolm brushes past him to examine the body. Another detective, this time a slight woman with a thick head of curly hair, gives him an appraising look. He lets her distract him for the moment. She’s likely not another tracker. Gil would really only need one, especially if JT really is what Malcolm guessed, but her relative youth makes him think she must be something special, something that really gives Major Crimes an edge. Something fierce, probably. “A Valkyrie?” he guesses. It’s not that difficult to imagine this woman with wings spread out wide on either side. 

She snorts. “I’ll take that as a compliment, but no, I’m human.” 

“I claimed her,” Gil cuts in. “Bright, this is Detective Dani Powell.”

Malcolm nods slowly. He never expected Gil would claim a human, considering how archaic they agreed the tradition was. That doesn’t stop the Ash from requiring it, however. Gil accepted responsibility for her and any actions she might make against the light fae, and in return, she can keep her memories and life. It’s clear looking at the two of them that the werewolf considers her part of his pack — a platonic member, too. 

He’s itching to ask more, but the body quickly catches his attention. He knows this crime scene. The wounds, the placement is almost one for one, although the technique isn’t quite as perfect as it was in the original set of murders. Slipping a glove on, Malcolm gently tilts the victim’s head to take a look at her eyes. This, too, is a sloppy copy.

An incubus or succubus was here. 

“I recognize this,” he says wearily. Looking at Gil, it’s obvious he does, too. His father didn’t do this, clearly, but whoever _did_ knows much more about The Surgeon’s murders than the general public was allowed to know. They recreated this one to the best of their ability, though they needed to use a heavy dose of their fae charm, which served to cloud the victim’s eyes with an unnatural pleasure. Martin Whitly never needed to do that. Malcolm suspects the tox report will come back with the same cocktail of drugs regardless. Their copycat isn’t as skilled or patient. “We’re looking for a copycat.” 

~

The Ash wants to see him alone. 

Malcolm bows his head, because he’s not stupid. As the grandson of a disgraced Ash, he needs to show more deference than anyone else, even if the man in front of him brushes it off.

He waves a hand, dismissing all of his guards. “Do you plan on staying in my territory this time, Malcolm?”

As if he doesn’t know that New York is really the only place Malcolm has left. “For the foreseeable future, yes.”

“Good. I’m sure your skills from the Bureau can be applied here.” The Ash considers him, his gaze touched by the briefest amount of concern. “You’re dismissed. Go feed. You’re looking peaky.”

Of course, Malcolm doesn’t _want_ to feed, but it wasn’t exactly a suggestion. He grits his teeth and bows again before leaving. 

Ever since he came into his abilities, he’s gotten by on the minimum. As a teenager, that meant sloppy kisses with Vijay at the fae boarding school his mother sent him to. In college, he limited himself to encounters at a club once a week. He’d pick up a fae, have a quick fuck to shore up his reserves, and then starve himself until the next encounter, knowing full well that any fae who knew who he was wouldn’t want to indulge him and that picking up a human as a relatively untrained incubus was asking for trouble. Once he was in the FBI, he made a deal with some of the other light fae in the local community. They’d let him feed off of them every now and then in return for the full incubus experience.

He doesn’t have any arrangements within the community here. It’s been a few weeks since his last serious feeding, too, so he knows the Ash’s demand isn’t unfounded. Stalking through the compound, he singles out the first fae whose eyes linger, tinged with lust rather than speculation. His eyes become sultry. His gait softens, sways. He lets his aura seep out just enough to suggest not coerce. 

The man, some kind of shapeshifter he guesses, is more than willing to go with him.

Trailing a hand across the man’s collarbone, Malcolm traces the length of his arm before grasping his hand and tugging him into the nearest closet. 

The shapeshifter opens his mouth, probably to either ask for his name or share his own, but this _isn’t_ that kind of encounter. Whatever it was is swallowed by Malcolm’s hungry mouth.

His eyes glow a luminous blue as his eyelids shutter and he unleashes more of his nature. Not too much, he reminds himself, not wanting to incapacitate someone who works in the Ash’s compound without permission. Picking someone here was a little risky to begin with. Malcolm has no intention of making an arrangement with this man, at least not now. He’ll have to examine the power structures here, see how much has changed since his last visit. Then, and only then, will he pick people to approach. It wouldn’t be a good idea to attach himself to someone who works closely with the Ash or Gil, the former so as not to risk his position and the latter because Gil _will_ smell it. 

The man’s hands wander, yanking his dress shirt out of his slacks and caressing the skin underneath it. 

Malcolm pushes him back against the shelves that line the closet. He breaks the kiss, eyes still vibrant as he pants. With a filthy look, he drops right to his knees and works to pull the man’s leaking cock out of his pants. All he needs is just a little more energy to get him through a few more days. A blowjob should do it.

“Fuck,” the shifter breathes out, redfaced. Clearly, he’s never had an incubus before. He starts to reach out for Malcolm’s head.

“Brace yourself on the shelves,” Malcolm says sharply. His words are tinged with his power. He’s not about to let this shifter get possessive with him, decide this is something it’s not. No, this man will have to take what Malcolm gives him. He barely allows him the time to get a handle on the shelves before licking a stripe up his cock, glowing eyes trained on his face, tongue curling around the head to catch the precome that beads up. 

The shifter growls. The wood creaks under his hands.

Malcolm smirks and engulfs nearly all of him in one smooth motion until his lips touch his fingers down at the base. There’s no reason to drag this out. He’s _starving_. He swallows thickly. He pulls off, sinks back down. He fucks his face on the throbbing cock, quite literally sucking the life out of the shapeshifter. 

When the man comes, Malcolm swallows it dutifully, licking his lips as his eyes finally lose their unearthly quality. He stands up and tucks his shirt back in quickly and efficiently. “Thank you,” he says with a smile, fixing the shifter’s pants, too, because the man is still struck dumb. “I’ll see you around.”

~

He does intend on doing some of that research on the community. _Honest_. The case gets in the way, however, and the next thing he knows, he’s using his charm on a terrified human dom strapped to a bomb. Nothing actually sexual, of course. They don’t have time for that even if it was the right place for it. It annoys him a little to see JT’s skepticism, but to be fair, he doubts he’s ever worked with a sexual fae in the field before. Malcolm’s kind doesn’t typically go for law enforcement.

And yet Malcolm excels at it. He softens his face, adds a soothing element to his voice even as he grabs the axe. For the final touch, he caresses the arm he’s about to aim for and sinks his own energy into the trembling limb. It leaves a soft glow that dissipates soon after.

Nico calms. Mostly. He still screams when the axe falls, but that’s to be expected. 

“Well that was some nifty shit,” JT mutters, hauling the bleeding dom to his feet and out the door. It almost sounds like there’s respect in his voice.

Grabbing the cooler, Malcolm trails after him. He feels spent already, a good deal of the energy he siphoned off of the shifter having gone into manipulating Nico. He should feed. He still hasn’t done his research. In his euphoria post explosion, asking JT seems like a good idea. Thankfully, his common sense kicks in and reminds him that the Boraro is too close to Gil, that there’s a wedding ring on his finger.

He holds back the question. 

Which means he still hasn’t fed by the time he goes to see his father for the first time in years. 

Martin’s face immediately falls into faux concern. “My boy,” he says softly, “you need to feed more often.” 

“I feed often enough, Dr. Whitly.” A lie, sure, but he’s not in the mood. Malcolm promises himself that he will get on that research as soon as this case is over. He’s a little paler than usual, a little less strong, and his grip on his charm a little looser. It’s not the worst it’s ever been — that still goes to some of the longer manhunts he’s been on — though it’s certainly the worst it’s been while still surrounded by fae he could feed on. 

“I was hoping you’d learned to embrace your heritage by now,” Martin continues with a sigh. “There’s nothing wrong with being an incubus, and there are plenty of ways to keep yourself healthy without draining anyone dry.”

They’ve already had this talk plenty of times. His father was the first one Malcolm went to when his abilities started to come in. His mother never understood what it was like to be a sexual fae let alone how to harness the powers that came with it. “I’m here about a case. You have a copycat. A sloppy one.”

There it is. The slightest hint of frustration, of anger passes through his father’s eyes. He may have orchestrated this, but it doesn’t mean he’s happy to see his work mutilated. “Oh?”

Malcolm plays him. He feels sick doing it. He knows that as soon as he leaves, his father will be proud, because, in a twisted way, it will confirm that they’re the same. Like incubus father, like incubus son. Charming, cunning, _manipulative_. 

All the while being light aligned, even if it’s a technicality on Martin’s part. 

He remembers the terrible sinking feeling he had the first time he visited after declaring light. He was terrified his father would finally crack in front of him, that he would discard the loving exterior and rage at Malcolm’s insistence on being different. 

But Martin was happy. He only saw it as another thing they shared. Undoubtedly, he was confident he could make Malcolm betray his community the same way he had.

That he could make Malcolm betray his own _family_. That’s what it was, that’s what Martin did, although Malcolm knew he would never call it that himself. When his father declared light, when he courted the daughter of the Ash and inserted himself into the most well known light family in the entire city, when he happily killed humans to satisfy his dark core, he dragged the entire family down with him. 

The worst part about it all was that Malcolm knew. He knew there was something off about his father. He knew he wasn’t quite as light as he claimed. At first, it was easy to ignore. Martin was — is — his father. The Girl was the final tipping point. Malcolm remembers shaking as he picked up the phone and called the cops. Even as a child, he knew they would send a fae to any fae addresses, which was good, because he also knew his grandfather wouldn’t take him seriously. The charming husband of his only daughter? He could do no wrong. 

Gil answered the call. He was more intimidating then, somewhat bulkier, but he smiled at Malcolm, the kindness shining through.

So Malcolm warned him about the tea, about his father’s entire deception. “He’s dark,” he whispered that night. “He’s lying.” 

Everything fell apart around him. The only constant was the kind werewolf who answered his call and believed him. Instead of walking away from the case as soon as Martin was in cuffs, Gil stuck by the remaining Whitlys. He fought for them when the Ash was voted out in disgrace. He insisted Jessica was unaware, that her children were innocent. 

Is it really that surprising that Malcolm fell for him? That as soon as his abilities started trickling in, the want and need following in short order, he latched onto the handsome man who never washed his hands of them despite never having met them before that night? 

Malcolm walks out of his father’s cell with a name. 

~

Feeding continues to take a backseat to the case. Now that he has a name, there’s no time for a fuck, no time to stop and find someone when Berkhead is likely getting ready to kill again. 

He figures he can feed after the case. It should be quick to wrap up. He and Dani go to the party to find Berkhead’s wife, and theoretically, it should be easy enough despite his weaker state and Dani’s humanity. She can hold her own, that’s what Gil assured him. And Malcolm? He’s still physically stronger than her even without feeding enough.

Except that he forgets to factor in Berkhead also being fae. He’s an incubus, too, and Malcolm’s known that since Gil first brought him in on the case, but it slips his mind, tired as he is. Instead of bringing the man’s wife to safety or taking him in for the murders, Dani’s tossed across the room like she weighs nothing, like she’s a minor nuisance. Berkhead doesn’t bother using his charm on her. She’s human, nothing to him. He’ll probably deal with her last.

Malcolm tries to calm him. He tries to talk him down. A sexual fae’s charm doesn’t work on others of their kind, and unlike Malcolm, Berkhead _has_ been feeding. Wrestling with him, putting all of his willpower into stopping him — it’s all useless. Part of him is convinced he’s going to die here. He’ll be killed by his father, in an indirect way, and maybe that was how it was always going to be. 

Then Berkhead, in his sloppiness, loses his grip on the syringe.

Hands shaking around it, Malcolm prepares to stick himself. It’s a last resort, something to knock the other incubus off his game. His wife is a fae, of course, because it’s still illegal in their communities to marry a human, which means that she’s more resistant to his powers than Dani will be. Killing her without the drugs won’t be nearly as easy. “I’m the one who turned him in,” he blurts out, tears streaking down his cheeks. “I’m his son, but I condemned him to that jail cell.”

It does work. Berkhead just barely stops himself from lunging forward. His eyes are trained on the syringe, his face twisting in rage. “That’s for Blair,” he roars.

“You don’t have enough for the two of us.” Malcolm lets the satisfaction show. He can feel the smirk forming, even as the tears still burn down his cheeks. Maybe this will buy Dani the time she and Berkhead’s wife need to get out of here alive. With the knowledge that the man is a dom, that his murders were his way of taking control back from his wife, Malcolm loosens his hold on his charm, because while it may not directly affect another incubus, it could make him a better target for a _dom_. His body relaxes, looking pliant and ready despite the circumstances. He tilts his head, too, and looks up at Berkhead through dark eyelashes. He bites his lip. He infuses his entire being with want and submission. 

The very moment Berkhead’s form shifts towards him, ignoring his wife on the floor, Gil and JT burst through the door.

~

All Malcolm wants to do is cuff himself in and sleep the night off. In the morning, he can take better stock of himself and figure out just how much he needs to feed to get back on an even keel. _Probably more than a blowjob_ , he thinks tiredly. He can already feel the gnawing sensation in his gut, the one that feels too sharp to be normal hunger.

“Bright,” Gil snaps, jaw set, “you’re with me.” He heads to the Le Mans without looking back.

Of course, Malcolm follows. Despite knowing there’s a lecture in his future, he finds himself craving the werewolf’s company. Gil is _safe_ , and Malcolm feels weak, battered. He climbs into the passenger seat quietly.

The drive itself is silent. The tension is palpable, but neither of them broach the subject. When the Le Mans is tucked inbetween two other cars along the sidewalk outside the loft, Gil turns the car off and accompanies Malcolm in without a word. He shuts the door behind them and slams his keys down on the island. “You’re starving yourself.” 

“I haven’t had time to get settled,” Malcolm says, standing his ground. “Now that the case is over, I —”

Gil shakes his head sharply. “You risked the case. You risked the team. You risked _your own life_ , and for what?” His teeth are sharper, longer than usual, the wolf in him coming out. “Tell me, kid, how hard would it have been to go to a fae club and find someone to feed off of?” 

“I was working the case!” It wasn’t his intention to get so distracted. He meant to make arrangements. He meant to feed. 

“Well, you won’t be working another until you’re fed,” Gil says with such finality that Malcolm’s mouth snaps shut, his teeth gnashing together. 

“Fine,” he hisses. He yanks his shirt off as he takes off for the bedroom area. He can feel the werewolf’s eyes on him, no doubt scanning the beginnings of bruises from his tussle with Berkhead. Pulling out a tight crop top, Malcolm tugs it over his head. “You can stay if you want,” he says and undoes the buttons of his slacks. “I won’t be here for much longer.”

The door slams shut.

~

Although he can say he’s been here before, it’s been too many years for anything or anyone to be truly familiar. Malcolm is okay with that. If he can’t do this the way he intended, with research and planning and carefully drawn up terms, then it needs to be anonymous. He doesn’t want to recognize the face that fucks him full. 

There are eyes on him as soon as he walks in. They take in the crop top taut against his pecs, the shorts that cup his ass, the hair still mussed from the case he’s fresh off of. His goals are loud and clear. 

He sits at the bar and lets them come to him. “A beer,” he tells the bartender with a wink. A lighter drink would be best right now, when his body is still aching and in need of healing. The tapered neck of the bottle is only a plus. He takes a sip, his lips wrapped around the dark glass, eyes slipping shut, tongue darting out to catch the drop of beer that threatens to slip down the side. He keeps his aura loose, his charm light around him.

It doesn’t take long for someone to bite. 

“Two whiskeys,” a rough voice says right next to him, “and another beer for him.”

Malcolm glances at the man through his eyelashes. _Not a mammal shifter_ , he thinks, even though the gravelly quality of his voice could indicate otherwise. He could be an avian shifter. Not that it _matters_. He’s attractive. A bit scruffy, bulky enough to hold someone of Malcolm’s size up against a wall without much difficulty. It would be even easier if his abilities lean towards strength. He’s a bit younger than he might go for when he’s not desperate to feed, but Malcolm pushes that thought away with a self deprecating smile. 

He’s not here to think about Gil.

The man returns his appraisal. “Alex,” he offers.

“Malcolm.” He finishes the rest of his beer in one long swallow and pushes it towards the bartender. “Two whiskeys?”

“One for me, one for my boyfriend,” Alex says smoothly. His eyes linger on the bare skin of Malcolm’s throat, the curve of his Adam's apple. There’s no hint of shame in his words.

Still, he needs to check. He wants to feed tonight, not get into another fight. “Does he know you’re over here?”

Alex sips his whiskey. “He picked you out.”

It’s a tempting offer, and Malcolm considers it as he takes another swallow. Two men would mean twice the energy to feed off of. He wouldn’t have to hold back as much as he might otherwise, even with a fae partner, and he suspects they aren’t expecting him to join them on a more regular basis, which fits his needs perfectly. Maybe one encounter with them will be enough to heal him up completely. “Why don’t you introduce me?”

His partner, a fae with a similar aura named Neal, smiles slyly as he knocks back his drink and pulls them to the rooms in the back. 

Beyond names, none of them bother pretending this is anything other than a quick fuck. Malcolm takes a packet of lube from Neal, sheds his shorts, lays back on the couch against the wall, and prepares himself with perfunctory motions. The couple watches him with greedy eyes. He wipes his fingers off on his crop top, letting his legs fall open invitingly, his eyes dark. 

“Think you could take both of us?” Alex says as he palms himself through his pants. 

Malcolm shrugs, the corners of his lips curling up. “Why don’t we try and see?” It’s been a while since he took two cocks in his ass, and the thought of doing it tonight sends a sharp bolt of heat through his groin. Tonight, he needs to be used. He lets Alex pull him up off the couch and tug the top over his head, mussing his hair even more. 

“He likes to start by watching,” Alex murmurs and nips at his ear. His hand glides across Malcolm’s chest and over his shoulder as he circles around to his back, yanking the incubus’ nude body up against his fully clothed one. 

“Then we should give him a show.” Locking eyes with Neal, Malcolm leans back against the man’s partner and trails a hand down to cup his own balls. His cock is already hard against his stomach, not yet leaking but flushed with his arousal all the same. He knows his eyes must be glowing by the way Neal’s become slightly dazed. The fae must be _very_ attracted to him to be affected by his charm this much. 

Alex dips just enough to grab the backs of his thighs and haul him up off his feet with a grunt. 

Breaking the eye contact, Malcolm turns his head, arching back against him. “You’re strong,” he says breathlessly and enjoys the man’s cocky grin. Oh, it’s going to be _so_ easy to get what he wants from these two. “Are you going to fuck me like this?”

“We are,” Alex confirms. “Neal, give me a hand, will you?”

Malcolm shifts his attention back to the other fae in the room, who stalks forward and angles his chin up for a kiss. Already, he can feel the energy seeping into him. It’s not enough yet to heal his scrapes and bruises, to rejuvenate him, fill up his reserves, but that will come once the show gets a move on. 

Neal reaches down between his spread legs, obviously pulling his partner’s cock free by the sound of the zipper in the otherwise quiet room. He removes another packet of lube from his pocket before returning his hand. The slick squelch of his fingers around Alex’s cock sends a shiver through them all. As soon as his partner is ready, Neal smears the rest of the lube around Malcolm’s hole. He leans past him to kiss Alex, hand drifting back down to line him up.

Malcolm can feel Alex’s groan against his back, the jerk of his hips in the sudden thrust of his cock inside. He reaches back to get a grip on him and sinks more of his charm into the skin of his neck just to feel his whole body twitch again. 

Satisfied with what he’s done, Neal steps back to watch. The bulge in his pants is significantly larger than it was before. 

No matter how much energy he can siphon off of these two, no matter if it all puts his body in peak condition, Malcolm is definitely going to be feeling this tomorrow. He huffs a laugh that stutters as Alex adjusts his grip and fucks up into him. There’s nothing he can do in this position but be used. 

Neal doesn’t touch himself as he watches. In fact, he crosses his arms, his hands pointedly nowhere near his dick, although it’s clear that he’s enjoying the show. His gaze drifts between their faces and where they’re connected. “He likes it,” he says to Alex after a particularly hard thrust. “How much do you think he’ll enjoy being sandwiched between us?”

Malcolm gives him a filthy smile. “If you join in, we can find out.” He can feel the bruises easing just a little more every time Alex hilts. He wonders if Neal is seeing it happen, if he’s paying attention to the rest of Malcolm’s body at all. Surely they know he’s a sexual fae by this point. He’s had partners in the past who loved to watch his skin knit back together in his ecstasy, who loved to scratch him bloody as he fed. The small signs of his fight with Berkhead are nothing compared to those, but even a human would notice something was odd. 

Neal gives in. He grabs one last lube packet, slicks up his fingers, and reaches down to where Alex, now still, is keeping him full. He teases at Malcolm’s rim, not slipping in. He leans in for another kiss from his partner and chases it with the incubus’ lips. 

Malcolm’s eyes flare as he takes a drag off him. 

In response, Neal lets a finger ease in next to Alex’s cock. He adds a second and then a third, taking time between each one to gently stretch him wide. 

Alex holds Malcolm up, but it’s not easy. Every new addition makes his cock twitch, the effort of staying still showing in the way his hands dig into Malcolm’s thighs, the sharpness of his breathing. He may be patient, but his body isn’t.

“I can take it,” Malcolm says, biting his lip, eyes at half mast as he catches Neal’s gaze. “ _Fuck me_.” He’s made for sex. The care with which they’re handling him is nice, sure. In the end, however, his body doesn’t need the same level of attention as a different kind of fae or a human would. He’s ready.

Neal removes his fingers and wraps them around his own cock instead. He uses them to guide it in, to coax Malcolm’s hole into spreading wide enough to accept the initial nudge, before he thrusts shallowly. 

It feels _so_ fucking good. Malcolm loosens his hold on his charm. He won’t let it go completely or he could still drain them with how desperately hungry he is, but the glow in his eyes goes up a notch as he begins to take energy from both of them, from their touch, from their cocks, from the desire in their hearts and minds. “Don’t hold back,” he hisses. His voice is tinged with some unearthly.

They listen. Alex does most of the lifting, Neal most of the thrusting. The latter has the most leverage of the three of them, and he makes use of it. His dick rubs about his partner’s, splits Malcolm open with every slight movement.

By the time their hips are stuttering, fucking fast and rough, he feels stronger than he has in weeks. His own cock strains against his stomach and smears precome across his skin with every twitch. One last burst of energy, and he’ll be on top of the world. He clenches down to encourage them. “Fill me up,” he demands.

Alex, unsurprisingly since he started before his partner, comes first. He barely manages to hold the two of them up as he grunts and fucks in as deep as he can, cock twitching with every rope of come he unloads. 

Neal works his hips faster until he falls over the edge, too, dragging Malcolm with him with a quick jerk of his dick.

Malcolm, for his part, wails as it hits him, both his orgasm and the final wave of energy they both unknowingly put out as they fill him. It surges through him. He claws at Neal. He’s fuller than he’s been in _so_ long, even before he was fired, and he already knows he’ll be coasting on this for a while. His body feels so light. If only he’d had this in him when Berkhead came after him. 

The high lasts for some time. He pulls his clothes on in a slight daze, though if anyone were to attack him now, he’d be more than powerful enough to protect himself. Brushing off the couple’s suggestion that he wait it out with them, Malcolm thanks them and walks out of the club.

He’ll call Gil in the morning. He can work the next case that comes in. 


	2. The Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details on mild dubconish tones for this chapter are in the end notes!

The next few cases are a bit… tense. Gil doesn’t bring up his feeding again, though it’s clear he wants to. The werewolf is especially frustrated those first few days after their fight. As soon as he caught sight of Malcolm, his entire aura radiating with the satisfaction that comes with being well fucked, the excess energy showing in the pep in his step, his nostrils flared and his mouth flattened. 

They barely talked that day.

Now, it seems they’re both content to ignore it. Malcolm tops off his energy a handful of times since, pointedly making sure his levels don’t drop to where they were at the end of the Berkhead case, but every encounter is tame in comparison to that night in the club. He just takes enough to keep him going. The euphoria of being filled to the brim with all of that energy is certainly alluring, and he finds himself aching to go back and find someone else to fuck him there. 

Instead, he satisfies the urge with a blowjob here and there. On one occasion it doesn’t go further than a filthy makeout. 

As Malcolm lays a hand on Gil’s face, cradling his cheek and feeling the whiskers of his goatee graze against his skin, he contemplates leaning in for a kiss. Just one. Gil could take it. Werewolves and other strong shifters _always_ have energy to spare. If he moves those scant few inches and connects their lips, he could pull a little of it in for himself. Maybe it would even help his body process the cocaine faster. It would certainly make him feel _good_. He smiles dopily. 

Gil looks at Dani. “Is he high?”

Without realizing, he finds himself drifting closer. “I’ve always wondered how soft your beard was,” Malcolm murmurs. He rubs his thumb against the salt and pepper. It’s well taken care of. It would be soft against his face, he bets. His head lists forward. 

“He’s high,” Gil says wearily. 

Dani crosses her arms, worry creasing her brow. “I didn’t think it would affect a fae so fast. Has he been feeding? He looked fine before, Gil, I _swear_.”

Gently pulling Malcolm’s hand away, his eyes darting to the pout that graces the incubus’ face and then immediately away, Gil shakes his head. “It depends on the kind of fae. Sexual fae don’t have the kind of metabolism to work through drugs quickly like a shifter can.”

“I can take him back to his loft,” she offers apologetically. She eyes Malcolm with a wary look.

He winks at her. “You’ll be safe with me. I don’t feed on humans.” Especially not claimed humans. The Ash wouldn’t punish him other than ordering him to pay reparations to Gil, but he’s certain the werewolf would be _infuriated_ if he touched her like that. 

“No.” Gil’s grip on his arm tightens. “Trust me, his powers are still strong. If anything, the drugs will mess with his control.”

She frowns, taken aback. “You think he’ll attack me?”

“I think he’ll get sick of being stuck at home and charm you into letting him leave,” Gil says dryly. He turns his head. “JT, you take Bright home.”

Although the detective grimaces, Malcolm can see that it’s not completely real. He’s been chipping away at his exterior since they met, gaining some small amount of respect, though he doesn’t fool himself into thinking it’s anything more personal than that. 

“Keep him at the loft until it’s out of his system,” Gil continues. “Use your barriers if you have to.”

Malcolm pouts again.

~

When they arrive, JT practically herds him up the steps and through the door. 

There’s an odd static feeling in the air. Malcolm twirls around, nearly toppling over. “Was that _you?_ ” He tilts his head and grins. “I’ve never seen a Boraro use their powers before. Can you do it again? Let me know when.”

“Yeah, and let you slip through before I can get them up again?” JT snorts and brushes past him to sit at the bar. “Nah, man. I promised Gil I’d keep you here.” 

“What if I promise to stay put?” Putting his hand over his heart, he softens his face, trains his wide eyes on the other fae. 

JT looks unimpressed. 

Malcolm pouts. Again. His mood flips around quickly, however, and soon enough, he’s leaping onto the couch with a manic grin. “Then let’s… let’s throw axes!” He feels jittery. 

“Let’s not.” Behind the incubus, JT doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t even seem to be affected by the small bit of aura Malcolm isn’t holding back anymore. 

Resistance to sexual fae isn’t a Boraro talent, however, and his curiosity gets the better of him. Hopping off the back of the couch, Malcolm works the buttons of his vest through their buttonholes. He lets it slip off his shoulders. He toes off his shoes, removes his socks. He loosens his cuffs. Every step he takes to the bar in languid, his eyes at half mast, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips, his fingers deftly unbuttoning his dress shirt. He keeps it on, framing and _teasing_.

JT watches him warily, but there’s a spark of something dark in his eyes. He doesn’t say a word.

“I suppose there are other ways we could pass the time,” Malcolm murmurs, climbing into his lap, his aura out and loose in a way he wouldn’t let it be around most, although it’s still not at full force. He takes one of JT’s hands and directs it to his bare chest. “A little fun might burn the drug out faster.”

JT’s hard. That much Malcolm can feel, proving that he isn’t straight, that he _can_ be touched by Malcolm’s charm. The detective grimaces and shakes his head. Curiously, despite being hard, he’s barely affected otherwise. Most people who find Malcolm attractive would be puddles of arousal by now. “I’m married. Isn’t it your job to notice that shit?”

“It’s my job to notice a lot of ‘shit,’” he says cheekily. “Why don’t you call her? You _are_ attracted to me.” JT hasn’t even tried to pull his hand away. “Am I her type, too?” Malcolm grinds down and gasps, mouth splitting into a wide grin. He leans into JT, wrapping his arms around his neck, stopping just short of his mouth. “I’ll even pay her cab fare.”

Finally, JT reaches out and gets a firm hold on his hips. He stands, hitching Malcolm’s legs around him, and the incubus smiles slyly, content to know he’ll be fucked good tonight. And then the detective drops him on the couch. “I’m not having sex with you, Bright.” He points at him. “And neither is my wife, okay?”

“You won’t even call her?” Malcolm says, half joking, half pleading. 

“Nope. I _will_ make you some food, though, and you’ll be grateful for it.” JT makes his way back to the kitchen, not even looking at the couch once. “I don’t cook for just anyone. What d’you want?”

Now that he thinks of it, Malcolm _is_ hungry. For food, too. He rocks up into a sitting position and scrambles off the couch to join the detective. “Grilled cheese! I have many different kinds of cheese.”

“I bet you do,” JT grumbles. He opens the fridge but takes a step back when Malcolm worms his way in front to pull out packages of cheese, seemingly at random. Maybe he’s still affected by the admittedly attractive incubus, or maybe he let his guard down at the thought of making grilled cheese, but he doesn’t notice the hand that slips into his jacket pocket. 

The packages are individually labeled with a thin marker, the words barely legible if you’re not used to the writing. Obviously he didn’t just pick them up at the corner store. Whatever these cheeses are, they’re artisan. Malcolm, having grown up eating all of these, quickly and efficiently puts together two sandwiches — though he consents to let JT slice the bread off the loaf. He gracefully backs away for the actual cooking. 

While the Boraro works at heating the skillet, Malcolm crawls onto his bed and flops over onto his back, pulling out the cell phone he lifted minutes before. It’s all too easy to figure out JT’s lockscreen code. JT _really_ needs to wipe his screen down more. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds one with a heart next to it. 

_Tally <3_

The picture inside confirms his suspicion. JT and a woman, Tally presumably, are curled up on what looks like a couch. It’s a candid shot. They’re smiling at each other, their faces a mere inch apart. A quick peek back at the kitchen reveals that JT is focused on laying the two sandwiches down into the pan without messing them up.

So Malcolm hits dial. He holds it up to his ear, one eye back on the kitchen. It only rings once before the call is picked up. 

“Hey honey,” Tally says warmly. “I thought you said you’d be working hard all night?”

“He is,” Malcolm says quietly, although the hilarity of the fact that all JT is currently doing is making grilled cheese _nearly_ makes him crack up. He doesn’t want the Boraro to know just yet. “This is Malcolm Bright, I work with Gil as a consultant.” 

Tally snorts a giggle. “Bright? The one who seduced a man into calming down so that you could cut his arm off?”

A blush burns its way across his cheeks. “That’s me.” He smirks then, regardless of the redness of his cheeks. “Does he talk about me much?”

“The quirky incubus who loves to throw himself directly in the line of fire? Oh, hun, he has something to say most days,” she says jokingly. “And not all of it is about that tight ass.”

Malcolm latches onto the last bit. “But some of it is?”

“Being married to a selkie gives him some resistance, but it’s in our nature to be hot,” she reassures him.

“A selkie?” he says a little too loudly. It’s rare to hear about a selkie being happily married, especially to a kind of fae that typically leans dark. 

“Bright,” JT says sharply. He’s at the side of the bed, and he looks pretty unhappy. “Give me the phone.” 

Malcolm stares at him. In his ear, Tally laughs. “No.”

JT dives for him.

Malcolm scrambles off the bed and darts for the living room. The chase lasts maybe a minute in such a small space, though he gives his all, running up the couch again and rolling across the island at one point, but in the end, JT gets his phone back. 

The grilled cheeses, thankfully, aren’t burnt, the detective having taken them off the stove before coming over to the bed. They aren’t as toasted as they could be, but the cheese is still melty. They eat them in silence. 

Malcolm’s desperate to ask him how he managed to get a selkie to trust him enough to marry him. He wants to know how a Boraro and a selkie would ever cross paths. He wants to meet her, too. She sounded fun over the phone. Still, the drugs haven’t scrambled his brain in such a way that he can’t recognize that JT isn’t in the mood after his little stunt, so he moans into his grilled cheese and gives the man a break.

(Well. As much of a break as possible. It’s not Malcolm’s fault that he enjoys a good grilled cheese.)

When he’s done eating, he skitters off to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, maybe cool down the blush that’s still flaming across his face. 

Of course, that’s when the hallucinations start. When his mind twists and screams. When he finds out just how hard JT can hit. 

~

The morning is awkward, to say the least. But JT sticks around for a quick breakfast, and Malcolm finds himself wondering if he’s somehow managed to make an almost friend.

~

Two days later, he gets a text from an unknown number. He knows it’s not JT, because, believe it or not, he already has JT and Dani’s numbers programmed into his cell for case related reasons. He still would have expected a text from the Boraro over his wife.

 _Hey Malcolm, this is Tally,_ pings up on his screen quickly followed by a _JT’s wife_. 

_Sorry about the other night_ , he writes back. It’s exceedingly rare he lets the more… playful side of his fae nature come out, but messing with the other detective was just too fun, especially since it involved a good deal of flirting, too. He wouldn’t have done so without the influence of the drugs, however. Not with a coworker. Not with a _married_ coworker. 

Instead of acknowledging his apology, she responds with an address and time. The address he recognizes as a fairly nice café. _You pay_ comes through a moment later.

It startles a laugh out of him, and he sends back a thumbs up. Apparently he has a date with Tally now. 

~

He arrives a few minutes early to stake out a good table. Soon enough, he catches sight of her. Malcolm instinctively knows it’s Tally, instinctively knows that the woman making her way towards him is another sexual fae. He'd know even if he hadn't seen her picture on JT's phone, just from her allure and the way she holds herself. Her aura isn’t quite like his. His is ever present, though he tamps it down as much as he can depending on the situation. Hers is more unassuming, simmering under her skin, only detectable to someone like him, like _them_. A defense mechanism, he realizes, so that she doesn’t scream _selkie_ wherever she goes. Anyone else might think she was a lesser sexual fae, or maybe an entirely different kind altogether. 

She smiles when she catches him looking, the apples of her cheeks rounding in a pleasing way as her teeth flash. Several heads turn her way. She stops in front of his table and looks him over. “JT didn’t exaggerate your charms.”

Loosening his hold on his aura, he relaxes into his chair, soft, coy smile at his lips, his legs crossed gracefully at the knee. “And you’re just as much of a beauty as I imagined.”

And she really is, even beyond the allure she’s putting out. He absently admits that JT really did luck out, because Malcolm has no doubt that Tally did the pursuing between the two of them. Most selkies probably wouldn’t willingly spend time with a dark fae who could trap them with barely a thought. 

Taking a seat, she hums and gestures for the waiter to come over. They order, her indulging but not in anything more expensive than Malcolm’s own tastes, and then they’re alone again. “I wasn’t lying the other night, hun,” she says softly, coyly, testing. “My man has definitely been appreciating that ass.”

“And you?”

She tilts her head. “Haven’t seen it yet, have I?”

He laughs. “What are you suggesting?” Malcolm knows the answer, of course, but he prefers confirmation. If this is going to happen, he won’t be treading on another fae’s territory. 

“You don’t have a case today,” she says matter-of-factly. “Come back to our apartment. We can set up a surprise for JT.”

His eyebrows raise. “Does he know you’re planning this?”

“He knows I want to.” Tally licks her lower lip, just a quick peek of tongue. Then, demeanor softening, the aura around her lessening, she gives him a genuine smile. “JT is a good man, Malcolm. When he called to tell me he’d be babysitting you, I gave him permission to let the night go wherever. But even though you flirted, he didn’t. He didn’t want me left out.”

He leans back in his seat. “So it’s not a matter of want or permission but timing.”

“Exactly. Interested?” She looks at him, eyes intense.

Malcolm bites his cheek and nods. “Very.”

“Great,” she says cheerfully, all traces of seduction completely gone. “Let’s get to know each other better. I’m _so_ curious about your profiling…”

~

Of course, then he does get called in on a case. While he would usually be thrilled to see Gil’s name on his phone screen, today he notes that he’s disappointed. He and Tally have been at the café for hours now. Malcolm ordered them a steady stream of appetizers and drinks to keep the staff from bothering them, but they were much less interested in the food and much more interested in profiling the other guests. At first, he was reticent. 

But Tally was truly interested in his skills. Too many people brush him off, saying it’s weird and creepy, saying that all he does is guesswork. She leaned into the table and looked at him with wide, curious eyes. She giggled when he predicted the marriage four tables over would end in divorce within the month. She prodded him for more details when he insisted the blonde at the bar was just a slightly expensive dye job. 

Walking her to her taxi, Malcolm gets that feeling again. Maybe he’s made a friend.

At the crime scene, he’s reminded that he and JT aren’t quite there yet. The Boraro gives him a short nod when Malcolm strolls in, but otherwise he goes back to his quiet discussion with Dani. So Malcolm veers off to see Edrisa, their very own Aswang, about the victim. Although he knew many fae communities relied on their Aswang members’ wisdom and dietary needs both past and present, he’d never gotten the chance to work with one before. They could put a major dent in the spread of diseases by eating the affected flesh, but typically they didn’t work directly in law enforcement. They’d have their connections to the morgue, specifically, and as long as they were provided with a supply of body parts for their diet, they lived to be quite long. Many of the eldest and wisest in the New York community were Aswangs. 

Edrisa just happens to be an extra quirky one, preferring to work right in the thick of it. She once reminded him that it’s not as if there are many grand epidemics for her to suppress. She might as well do what interests her. 

He flashes her a quick smile, devoid of his allure, and ignores the blush that blooms across her cheeks.

The case goes on. He loses himself in the details and the scene for the most part. It isn’t until Edrisa’s team gets ready to remove the body that he lets his thoughts wander back to this morning. To Tally. To JT. Malcolm finds himself looking at the detective, eyes lingering on his strong arms. Would he be able to hold Malcolm down and fuck him the way he loves? Tally already indicated how excited she is to bring him in.

JT shifts and stares at him, one eyebrow raised.

Just for fun, just to test the waters, just to remind himself that _yes_ , JT was aroused by him that night, Malcolm lets out a little of his allure. His mouth curls into a smirk. His eyes darken. He winks.

JT’s gaze narrows, and then, for a split second, he looks the incubus up and down, meeting his eyes again with that same something from the other night. It’s gone as fast as it appeared.

The beginnings of a slow, molten heat settles in Malcolm’s groin. He _will_ need to feed soon, and it looks like he won’t be going to any clubs this time. 

“Bright,” Gil snaps, “with me.”

Reigning in his allure with a tight fisted grip, Malcolm turns and follows the werewolf to his car, not entirely sure why they’re going there, but ready to discuss his thoughts on the case all the same. 

Except that Gil doesn’t want to talk about the scene. He closes the door and turns to face Malcolm, his jaw clenched. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to say this, kid, but you need to keep your mind on the job.”

Malcolm blinks. “I do,” he says, taken aback.

“No flirting,” Gil clarifies. He grimaces, seemingly torn. “I don’t care what arrangement you and JT have in your free time, but it doesn’t spill over into the work. You come in professional, or not at all.”

Expression shutting down, forcibly shifting to a more neutral one, Malcolm nods sharply. “Got it, Lieutenant Arroyo,” he says with deceptive calm. He’s too thrown to rage the way he’s beginning to want to. “I can be very professional. I apologize for the slip.” He opens the door and climbs out, closing it with more force than he usually would yet not nearly enough to be considered slamming it. 

Because, of course, he’s still crushing on Gil way too hard. It fucking _aches_ to have him think he’s just another incubus. That he doesn’t know how to be professional, to hold back on the lust that comes with his nature. Malcolm knows he’ll never have Gil. He knows they’ll never be anything other than the kid who called the cops on his father and the cop who answered that call. He thought he was okay with that. Apparently not, with how hard his heart hurts now. He knows he shouldn’t feed where he works, either, but Tally approached _him_. He would never have turned his allure on JT while sober. Even then, he didn’t push. He could have used his abilities to their fullest. He _chose_ not to. 

The rest of the case is even more stilted than things have been for weeks. Malcolm keeps his charm racing under his skin, not letting it out once, not even to weasel details out of a witness. That he uses his plain words for. He doesn’t let his eyes linger on JT. On Gil, either. 

He brushes off the werewolf’s stiff offer of lunch in his office, palming his phone the entire time. Dani and JT are busy finishing up paperwork.

 _Case solved_ , he texted Tally earlier. He received an address in return.

~

His first stop is the loft for a shower. He needs to wash off the stress and effort of the case, needs to change into something softer. A suit would be unnecessary when it’ll all be coming off shortly. His hair gets a quick blow dry, not for styling but just so that he doesn’t walk out into the afternoon chill with damp locks. He doesn’t bother with gel, either. Hopefully one of the Tarmels will be getting a good hold on his hair later. He makes sure to feed Sunshine on his way back out.

With JT still at the precinct filling out paperwork and wrapping up the case, it’s unsurprising that Tally is the one who opens the door. She isn’t overly dressed, either. Her feet are bare against the hardwood. Her outfit, a silky pink slip dress, falls around her legs in a flattering way, the tight bust of it showing off her ample breasts. 

Neither of them let any hint of a sexual aura surround them. Both take the other in with lustful gazes born of nothing but pure attraction. 

“Let’s warm up,” Tally says eventually, ushering him in with a smirk. “If we start now, we can be ready to really get into it when JT gets home.”

His allure curling around him, Malcolm returns the look. “Sounds like a plan.” It’s so refreshing to not have to hold himself back right now. Doing so for the entirety of the case made him feel stifled, cramped, and while he’s well aware that Gil probably didn’t intend for him to go _that_ far, he had to. It was either that or walk away from the case until he could pull himself together again. He _is_ professional, so the case had to come first. 

In response, Tally lets herself go, too. Not fully, just like he isn’t exposing her to the full brunt of his power. She sighs, comfortable, and wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Unlike a succubus, a selkie doesn’t feed off of energy. She does have a lot of sexual energy to share, however.

Malcolm skims a little off the top as he explores her mouth. Her essence is bright and full of desire. He can feel himself filling out his boxer shorts just taking it in. There’s something else there, though. Something fresh. New? It’s just a tinge on her life’s energy. He breaks the kiss. “Are you pregnant?” he blurts out. 

A wide, wondering smile spreads across her face. “You can feel that? I’m just a few weeks along. We aren’t telling anyone yet.”

“Barely,” he says, shaking his head, genuinely happy for them. “Congratulations.”

Tally yanks him into another kiss. Carefully, blindly, she leads him to the living room, and together, they tumble onto the couch. 

As they kiss, as their auras entwine and amplify, it’s almost as if a haze sets down in the room. They’re drunk off each other. Tally’s dress rides up, hinting at smooth thighs. Malcolm’s hair begins to look wild from having her fingers run through it and _tug_. Hands roam skin, their lips still locked. A long time passes this way. 

He sits back on his knees eventually. One of her legs is wrapped around his hip, the other half off the couch. Skimming the edge of his sweater, he pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. 

Tally leans forward and traces the smattering of hair across his chest and down to the waistband of his pants. Her fingers dip below it, easing it down until it pools at his knees. 

He falls back just enough to kick them off the rest of his way. His cock is already thick in his boxers. 

With a lick of her lips, Tally crawls over to straddle him, carefully easing her aching pussy, covered in thin lace, right over his bulge. She rocks slow and easy.

Malcolm slips his hands underneath the pooled edges of her dress and removes it just as slow. He cups her breasts over her matching lace bra. He’s been told before that his touch is pure heat when he lets go this much. “Do you dress up for JT like this?”

“On special nights,” she says, pressing down until they both groan. “I think tonight’s pretty special.” She grins wickedly. “He’s going to come in here and see us. Waiting. All for him.”

They kiss again, falling back into the haze, not willing to take things further until JT arrives. 

Which they notice mostly due to the curses he lets out as he gets into the apartment and walks right into the haze, realizes what’s happening before he can even seen them. 

Both of them moan as the odd tingle of his powers rolls over them. His barriers will keep anyone and everyone out. 

“Tally?” JT calls out. 

“In here,” she says breathlessly, trailing into a laugh as Malcolm runs kisses along her neck. 

The Boraro stops short at the doorway. “ _Fuck_ , Tally.”

Climbing off of Malcolm’s lap, she makes her way to her husband and pecks him on the cheek. “You know this won’t go any further without your say so, JT. We both want you to join us, but we’ll stop if you don’t.”

He looks over her shoulder at Malcolm, whose boxer briefs are damp with her juices and his own precome. The incubus gives him a lazy smile. “You up for a hard fuck, Bright? I don’t think I’ll be holding back tonight.”

“Call me Malcolm if we’re doing this.” He gets off the couch, too, ambling over to join them, loosening his control over his allure even more now that JT hasn’t told him to leave. 

JT drags him into a rough kiss. “I’ll call you what I want, pretty boy,” he jokes. He makes his way to the bedroom.

Both selkie and incubus follow. 

JT strips quickly and efficiently, putting his clothes from the day into the hamper in a relatively unhurried manner. His firearm is in the gun safe by the bed, his handcuffs on the side table. “One ground rule,” he says, standing in front of them in nothing but his boxers. “I need to be able to get up on time tomorrow or Gil will fry my ass. _Both_ our asses."

Malcolm bites his lip and smiles. One of the abilities most sexual fae possess is their allure, which, when used right, can keep things going for quite a long time. If JT is giving them permission…

“On the bed, pretty boy,” JT orders.

Lust in every step he takes, in every subtle shift in his body, Malcolm obeys, laying down as directed. Another night, he might not be so obedient. Tonight, he wants to see what JT can do. 

The Boraro tugs one of his arms up towards the headboard and cuffs it there with his NYPD-issued cuffs. 

Malcolm pulls at the restraint. The metal cutting into his wrist as he applies more pressure has him groaning. Before he can do much else, Tally is climbing on top of him. This time, instead of settling in his lap, she sits on his stomach, legs on either side of him. 

Her husband unclasps her bra as he climbs up onto the bed, too. 

They kiss over Tally’s shoulder. Then she dips down to pull Malcolm into a kiss, tongue slipping past parted lips to continue what they started before JT came home. 

He only has one hand to touch her with. He makes do. He thumbs at the lace edge of her panties, splays his fingers along her lower back. When she pulls away to breathe, he finally cups a breast with his palm, skin to skin. 

Her nipples stiffen between his fingers. 

Malcolm jolts, squeezing her tit as a slick finger breaches him. It was all too easy to get lost in Tally, in their combined allure. Not that he can’t adjust. With his limited range of movement, he pushes back into the finger and hopes that JT plans on a quick prep. 

Not content to be ignored, Tally laces her fingers in his hair and fists it, demanding his attention. 

So he continues to massage her breast as JT loosens him up. He rolls her nipple and smirks as she mewls and rocks against his abs. Both of them are releasing so much of their aura now that he’s shocked her husband hasn’t already given up on prepping him. JT _is_ moving faster, working him on a tight three fingers now, though Malcolm knows that as long as he’s lubed up, his body will do all the rest of the work. Perks of being an incubus who likes to take dick, apparently.

Another mewl from Tally, another grunt from Malcolm as his hair is yanked does it. 

JT pulls his fingers out and wipes them on the sheets. He readjusts his position on the bed, hauling Malcolm’s legs up around his hips. “Why don’t you sit on his face, baby?” he suggests, voice rough. 

Tally gracefully rolls off of Malcolm’s stomach, pulls her soaked panties off, and swings her leg back over him, this time over his face. 

Malcolm bends his free arm to rest a warm hand on her outer thigh. He can smell how excited she is, see it in the way her folds glisten, too, and it makes up for the fact that he can’t see JT’s cock as the Boraro lubes it up and begins working the thick head into his hole. Malcolm moans, his breath ghosting across Tally’s pussy, making her shiver. 

“Don’t leave her hanging,” JT says. He’s still feeding his cock in torturously slow. 

So Malcolm uses his free hand to guide her right to where she needs to be. He groans into her wetness. His face is immediately slick, the engorged flesh hot against his lips. He licks around her clit over and over with small swipes of his tongue. 

Seeing him dive right in is what JT needs to really start. He bottoms out just as slow as he started. He draws out slow, too, Malcolm’s body spasming around his cock with every inch. Then, gripping both of the incubus’ legs, JT slams into him.

Malcolm yelps. Tally rocks down and drops her head back, eyes drifting shut. 

And JT can feel it. Any last grip they had on their allure slips. The room becomes a haze. His cock becomes harder, if that’s even possible. Tally’s hips move hypnotically. Malcolm’s body clenches around him rhymically. 

Another rock, another swipe. Malcolm shifts slightly to seal his lips around Tally’s throbbing clit and sucks.

She grabs him by the hair and holds him buried in her folds as her first orgasm washes over her. 

Watching her crest, every single twitch of her body sensual, is enough for JT to slam into Malcolm even harder. He fucks him harder than he would Tally and especially harder than he would ever fuck a human. Malcolm is made for this, and _fuck_ , if it isn’t apparent now. JT fists the incubus’ cock and strips him until he practically convulses around him. His own orgasm is _ripped_ from him.

At the head of the bed, Malcolm strains against the single cuff, eyes glowing blue as he feeds deep, his moans muffled by Tally’s folds.

It could be the end of the night. It would be, if Malcolm was at a club fucking anonymous fae. With all of the allure in the air, however, none of them are ready for this to be over. JT is still rock hard in his ass, and Tally is still rocking against his lips. Malcolm can feel the way his own dick twitches in the mess on his stomach. 

He loses track of the time then. There’s only the rapid thrust of a cock in his ass, JT’s muttered curses, Tally’s juices flooding his mouth. Over and over and over again. His fingers dig into the selkie’s human skin. He cups her ass, pulls her closer. He lets his legs be hiked up and up. He exists only to feed.

Until Tally wobbles off of him, her pussy leaving a wet mark on the sheet next to his head. She gently cards a hand through his wild hair. “JT’s gotta sleep, hun.”

He gives her a dopey smile. He’s stuffed, _so_ stuffed. He’s not sure he’s ever taken in this much energy. It’s leagues more than whatever those two shifters at the club had to give. Resting a hand on his stomach, Malcolm realizes he’s stuffed there, too, the normally flat plane giving way to a small paunch. He prods it curiously and whines as what feels like a river of come seeps out of him. 

JT is sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes, dark and blown wide, are honed in on Malcolm’s ass. “Baby, can you get him washed? I’m not getting to work on time if I do.”

Malcolm gives him a saucy wink. He doesn’t protest when Tally helps him to his feet, though, and soon enough they’re scrubbing each other down in the shower, slowly reeling in their allure to normal levels. It’s pleasant, knowing that the other has no motive here other than to wash off the night. He gives her a peck on the cheek as he pulls his clothes back on. “I’ll call an uber.”

She shakes her head. “Stay the night. We’ve only got the couch, but it’s better than wandering home at one in the morning.” 

They share a sly look. JT came home around _six_. 

In the end, he does stay, even makes pancakes for them in the morning, because this time? He’s sure he’s made some friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When JT and Malcolm are at the loft, Malcolm does push pretty far in seducing him, but he does back off when JT puts a stop to it. Later in the chapter, Malcolm and Tally plan a night for the three of them without JT's prior knowledge, but Tally knows from talking to her husband that he's interested. They don't let anything happen past making out without JT's consent. 
> 
> ALSO: posting schedule! This fic is officially fully written, though I will not be posting it all at once. I'll be editing the remaining two chapters and posting them as follows:
> 
> Chapter 3 - June 16th  
> Chapter 4 - June 19th
> 
> I do plan on writing more in this universe at some point in the nearish future, so if you're interested in that as well, please subscribe to the series itself and not just this installment.


	3. All Souls and Sadists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags, the angst related ones AND the eventual happy ending and miscommunication ones. This WILL end with happy Gil/Malcolm, but this chapter is rough.

Malcolm isn’t called in the next day. In fact, he isn’t called in all week. Or the week after that. He employs every bit of emotion control he can to keep himself from bursting into Gil’s office and demanding to know why. He already _knows_ why, and it’s unprofessional on the werewolf’s part. Going to the Ash would be an option, especially since the man seems to have an interest in Malcolm himself, but just the thought of going over Gil’s head for this hurts. 

It would destroy any relationship he has with him. 

So Malcolm tries to lose himself in yoga for hours on end. He turns down most of Tally’s invitations, knowing that as mind blowing as that experience was, it’s also what set Gil off. They still talk, because he doesn’t want to lose such a fragile new friendship. She understands. She doesn’t come out and say it, but some of her texts seem to indicate that Gil isn’t going easy on JT, either. Malcolm hates that this is affecting him, too. 

He talks to Gabrielle. He tells her all of his frustrations. Thankfully, she’s fae, so he can tell her the entire story. She listens dutifully, not commenting on how small he’s made himself in the chair today or how he’s already taken a lollipop to suck on while he speaks.

When he finishes, she gives him a leveled look. “Have you considered the possibility of Gil being jealous?”

The dwindling hard candy shatters between his molars. “No. _Absolutely not._ He’s known me since I was a child.” Malcolm shakes his head. “Just a little longer than you, in fact.”

“You aren’t that child anymore,” she says simply. “You left while you were still growing into yourself and came back a man — a fully matured sexual fae. Perhaps his view of you has shifted in response.”

He leaves that session still frustrated. Usually, he can at least see where Gabrielle is coming from. Today… she doesn’t know Gil. She doesn’t know their relationship.

Malcolm goes home and throws himself into some cold cases, losing track of time and forgetting about everything and anything outside of his loft. 

~

The situation comes to a head the next day. Already awake on account of his fucked up sleep schedule, Malcolm reads Tally’s text the instant it comes in. He nearly crushes his phone in response, just barely managing to text out an _of course, I’ll be there soon_.

If JT can’t get leave to be there for her first sonogram, Malcolm will make sure it’s still the happy moment it should have been. He calls an uber, directing them to a flower shop first, where he gladly drops an absurd amount of money and charm for the woman behind the counter to make a gorgeous arrangement right on the spot. Then, getting back into his uber, he heads to the Tarmel residence. The driver gets quite the tip for all of his patience.

Malcolm knocks on the door, flower arrangement half obscuring his face. 

When Tally opens the door, she looks okay. To a regular observer. To another sexual fae, it’s obvious that she’s used her allure to cover up what normal human makeup can’t. She’s upset, justifiably so. They’re both well aware that if Gil wasn’t being so hard on JT right now, he probably would have given him the time off without a moment’s consideration. 

Malcolm awkwardly pulls her into a hug, reminding himself that he’s eaten this woman out already, and gives her a soft, closed mouth kiss on the edge of her lips. It warms him to hear her giggle as she gets a face full of flowers. 

“What’s all this?” she asks, smiling softly once they part.

“A gift for the beautiful expectant mother.” Then, shifting the flowers to one arm, he digs his phone out of his pocket. “I figured I’d also capture the experience for JT, so he doesn’t have to miss all of it.”

Tally brushes away the tears that gather at the corner of her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup. “Thank you, Malcolm,” she murmurs. 

~

Even though he swore he wouldn’t set foot in the precinct until his presence was wanted, Malcolm enters at a very controlled pace and makes his way to Gil’s office. No one stops him. They recognize him well enough by now, likely aren’t even questioning him being there. He’s Lieutenant Arroyo’s consultant. 

The only ones to startle when they see him are JT and Dani. Malcolm swerves over to JT’s desk and hands him a folder from in his coat. He gives him a real smile. “I left Tally with a recording, too. You won’t miss anything.” 

JT puts a hand on his arm, a warm gesture he never would have initiated weeks ago. “Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

Malcolm nods. 

At the other desk, Dani looks wary. “I have no idea what’s going on, but you might want to leave before _he_ realizes you’re here.” She points back at Gil’s closed office door. 

It warms his heart that she cares about him enough to warn him. “Actually, I’m here to see him.”

She grimaces immediately, leaning back. “Your mistake.”

“He’s been pissy alright,” JT mutters next to him. “Be careful.”

But JT hasn’t seen Malcolm on the warpath before. Gil may have the claws, the teeth, the growl, but Malcolm has been stewing in hurt and indignation for weeks. 

He opens the door.

Gil looks up, his expression going flat. He opens his mouth to speak, but Malcolm steps inside the office and slams the door shut.

“Bright,” Gil growls.

“Are you _trying_ to lose your pack?” Malcolm cuts in, pissed. 

The werewolf stands up. “All I asked you to do was keep it professional.”

“On the _job_.” He holds his ground. “But I’m not here about me. I’m here about JT.”

“He came into work half dazed and reeking of sex,” Gil says sharply. _Reeking of you_ , he doesn’t.

Malcolm clenches his jaw. Maybe they should have capped the night earlier, though JT still would have smelled like him and Tally for days after being drenched in their allure like that. “You didn’t let him take the morning off. If it’s so busy, why are both of your detectives sitting around?”

“I don’t have to agree to every leave request,” Gil snaps. He rounds the desk without thinking, almost stalking like the fae he is. 

“If you want him to stay in your pack, then you would have let him go to Tally’s sonogram appointment.” It’s stupid to get aggressive on a werewolf’s territory, but Malcolm takes a step forward anyway. “You’re on track to lose all three Tarmels.” 

That gets Gil’s attention. His face falls. “Three?”

“Or more,” Malcolm says idly. “She’s not far along enough to tell.” 

“He didn’t say why he wanted the morning off.” Sitting on the edge of the desk, Gil sighs. 

Malcolm stays where he is. The part of him that still loves the man in front of him wants to say it’s okay, he didn’t know, now he can do better. The rest of him feels so fucking raw yet that he _can’t_ give him that. “Because it’s early. They aren’t telling people yet.” 

When Gil doesn’t say another word, Malcolm takes another step closer. “Whatever problem you have with me and what I am shouldn’t affect your pack.” And with that, he turns and leaves, not giving the werewolf a chance to respond. Malcolm doesn’t want to hear it right now. He’s already feeling jittery with the pent up hurt. The only explanation he can think of for Gil’s behavior is that he can’t handle Malcolm being a fully matured incubus. It couldn’t be his behavior on the job. He kept it professional. He had his night with Tally and JT on _off_ duty hours. 

This consulting job has been keeping him sane since losing the FBI, but he might just need to talk to the Ash about doing something else.

~

He doesn’t get the chance to. The next morning, Dani calls and asks him to come in. It’s usually Gil who contacts him, but with the way they left things the day before, he’s not terribly surprised he asked one of his detectives to do so. What _is_ surprising, however, is that he chose Dani to do it. Maybe it shouldn’t be. Maybe Gil is still angry that Malcolm touched JT, fed off of him. 

Or, as he finds out at the scene, maybe JT has the day off. Apparently Gil insisted he stay home and spend the day with his wife instead. Malcolm’s sure that alone soothed any of the doubts JT and Tally might have had about staying in the pack. He idly wonders if they really would have left had he not said anything. In the end, he’s genuinely happy that Gil’s pack of four won’t be shrinking but growing. 

Four, because Malcolm himself isn’t sure he counts anymore.

While he walks around the grassy area, Dani fills him in on everything they already know. He does see Gil, does feel the werewolf’s eyes on him. He doesn’t address him. Gil doesn’t make a move, either. Malcolm just puts on his most professional facade and picks apart the scene. 

It’s a human crime for sure. The victim is human. There are no signs of fae anywhere around them, especially not in regards to the method of murder. “We won’t be dealing with a wendigo,” he murmurs just loud enough for Dani to note. “He’s intact, save for the stab marks.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Sounds good to me.”

He smiles halfheartedly. Technically, Gil brought him in on a fae case. The Ash wants him to use his skills here, for the community. Since this isn’t a fae case, he could build his profile and leave it with Dani for her and Gil to handle, and then take another break until Gil feels he needs him onboard again. The problem with that is that he can’t. They’re down a detective, and even he knows that humans are capable of killing fae in certain circumstances. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he sent Gil into a dangerous situation with only a human for backup, no matter if it’s one as tough as Dani. Nevermind the fact that he’s been pacing a hole in the floor of the loft for weeks because of the werewolf.

Malcolm follows them to notify the victim’s family. Both mother and son are human, too, unsurprisingly. Though it happens now and then, fae who start relationships with humans quickly learn to go underground. It _is_ illegal, after all. He immediately clocks the mother as overprotective, overly concerned with her son in comparison to the norm. Her son, Isaac, is a little odd, too, but most of what Malcolm gets from him is loneliness. 

Glancing back to check that Gil isn’t watching, he lets a little of his allure out, not to seduce, of course, but to make himself more come off more friendly to coax the boy out of his shell. It doesn’t take much. He’s a fairly sheltered kid. Malcolm would guess he doesn’t have many, if any, friends other than his rabbits, and though their situations are not terribly similar, he can’t help but feel a bond with Isaac.

Malcolm remembers all too well the drowning feeling of being alone. His mother was busy trying to claw her way out of her shock and depression, and his sister was too young to understand a thing. Isaac would have his mother, yes, but she didn’t seem to want to talk about his father much at all. Isaac would be alone in his grief. There are rules about getting too involved with human matters, but Malcolm can’t let him stew in it.

“It’ll be okay, eventually,” he tells the boy, letting his charms translate to comforting. He pulls a lollipop out of his jacket and hands it over. The words and the sweet are both things he remembers Gil giving him, and for Malcolm, they’ll always be something that gave him hope. It’s only right to pass it on when he can. 

~

Being professional is all too easy in the conference room. He lays out his ideas, including the Jocasta complex that Isaac’s mother shows strong signs of and the boyfriend, who happens to own a gym and teach self defense classes. It seems like it’s going to be an open and shut case. Malcolm almost wishes it was a fae case instead, but he shakes the thought off. That would require more time at the precinct. More time with Gil.

For his part, Gil is still boring holes into him with his eyes, just not as often. He’s giving Malcolm a good amount of physical distance, too. He’s biding his time. Waiting for Malcolm to approach _him_. 

But the incubus’ mind is focused on other matters. He hasn’t fed since his night with JT and Tally, and he truly didn’t need to for a long time after. The energy he got off of the two of them was a high he rode for over a week straight with no hiccups. Even now, two weeks out, he can feel the remnants of it keeping him going. He should be able to wait out this case before topping off again. He’ll go to the club the night after they get their collar. 

Easy enough.

Malcolm offers himself up to get things moving.

Gil grits his teeth but agrees.

~

He enters Jake’s Gym and Fight Studio alone. 

A flash of his credit card, a little allure, and a cocky facade gets him face to face with Jake himself. Malcolm’s not sure if the receptionist is trying to give him the best experience or hopes the owner will beat some of the arrogance out of him. Either way, he greets Jake flippantly. He keeps his eyes roaming around the gym, not giving him the eye contact he can already tell Jake wants to demand. It doesn’t hurt that it allows him to clock his surroundings, too. He knows Gil will follow him in shortly, but he might need an out if it takes too long. 

Jake, human and fragile even if he doesn’t know it, is still a threat. He’s got a good amount of muscle on him, and the look in his eyes… Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if they had their killer in custody before the afternoon. There’s no guarantee Jake will be affected by his allure, either, though he has a feeling he’s less aroused by people and more by the pain he can inflict on them. Malcolm can play with that, if need be.

He’s confident he won’t have to. Not with the hint of Tally and JT still running through him.

“How’d you hear about us?” Jake asks, voice friendly.

Malcolm can hear the anger underneath it. Eyes lingering on a set of treadmills across the room, he lets himself smirk. “Saw a flyer,” he says absently.

“And you just _decided_ on Krav Maga?” Jake struggles to keep the contempt off of his face.

The arrogant rich man was a good choice, evidently. “I’ve already done Kung Fu, Jiu-Jitsu. Figured I’d try something new.” He gives Jake a lazy smile. Although both Gil and Dani were reluctant, Malcolm knows the best way to reveal the trainer’s sadistic streak is to taunt him, and he’s the most suited for it. His abilities lean towards teasing. If he takes it a little far today, if he enjoys it a little much, well, neither of them will blame him for it. (Or maybe Gil will. Malcolm tries not to think about it.) “How do the belts work in Grav Macau?”

The sound of Jake’s teeth grinding is practically audible. “There are no belts in Krav Maga, Mr. Bright. Only pain.”

 _And that’s why you love it_ , Malcolm thinks. “That doesn’t sound fun,” he says idly, infusing some of his charm into the words as a test. It’s not so much that his words suggest just what else might be fun, but the implication of _something_ is there.

“It’s not supposed to be,” Jake snaps. There’s that temper. He’s definitely not affected by Malcolm. _Yet_. “It’s about inflicting enough damage to make sure your attacker can’t attack you again. Ever.”

Malcolm pretends to think it over. What he’s really wondering about is just how many other sadists have walked out of here with the skills to back up their wants. “I’ve never needed that much force for a robber before.” He keeps the charm up, aimed at coaxing Jake to get to the demonstration. If he makes him feel like he needs to teach Malcolm something, helpful or painful, it’ll have done its job.

With a scoff, Jake walks closer to him. His pace is slow, predatory. “You will one day, Mr. Bright. I can tell you right now that there are plenty of dangerous people who want what you have.” He’s in Malcolm’s face now, close enough that the incubus can feel the barest wisp of his breath across his face. “Your fancy clothes, your watch, your house… even that ass of yours. You have two options. Let them take...”

“Or hurt them?” Malcolm looks up at him through his lashes, eyes purposefully guileless, because while he doesn’t want to lose the lazy facade just yet, he needs to keep Jake right where he is, emotionally at least. He could taste the hint of arousal in the air as soon as Jake got close. Malcolm can reel him into their trap. He just needs to let Jake hurt him. 

He holds back a smirk.

Jake doesn’t bother. He saunters out of Malcolm’s space, likely convinced that he’s got a firm grasp on him now. “Come at me. Show me what you know.”

It would destroy what he’s building to _actually_ show him, so Malcolm consciously pulls back on his strength while upping his allure in preparation of whatever Jake will do to him. He clears his throat. Then, he approaches, stopping in front of the trainer like he would for a match, and strikes without much power behind it. He leaves himself open as a taunt. _Come at me, Jake._

Jake takes the bait. Without hesitation, he grabs Malcolm’s arm and twists _hard_ , forcing him to his knees. The scent of arousal thickens. It spikes when Malcolm tries to look back at him. “See? Your Kung Fu won’t help you here,” Jake says gleefully. “It only took one move to make you submit.” Another spike.

 _Oh_ , Jake likes that. Likes Malcolm on his knees, face creased in pain. Malcolm can work with that. He loosens his hold on his allure again. “I see,” he says, making sure his voice sounds strained.

“In Krav Maga, you need to attack with everything you got.” Instead of letting him up, Jake uses the hold to slam him to the mat. “You might want to sign up for our Kung Fu classes, Mr. Bright.” 

Malcolm lands flat on his front, the wind knocked out of him. It’s worth it though, to smell the way Jake wants him, craves him in this position — face down and _shamed_. Just a little more, and they’ll have him. He grins into the mat before pushing up to his knees and brushing his hair back. “Ah, okay.” Getting to his feet, he pulls off his jacket and gives Jake another look that has him smelling so _divine_. “Before I decide, why don’t you show me what else you got?”

Jake looks him over, clearly enjoying how ruffled he looks now. “Sure. I’ll attack first this time.” 

There’s no guarantee he’ll actually let go and use more force than necessary, however, and they need him to show his hand, so Malcolm doesn’t give him the opportunity to catch him this time. He slams his palm into Jake’s nose and feels the thrill of it ricochet up through his arm. If _that_ doesn’t make the trainer come after him with intent to put him in the hospital, he doesn’t know what will. 

“What the fuck?” Jake roars. The arousal in the air doesn’t abate, but it sharpens. He _definitely_ wants to hurt Malcolm before? During? Probably after sex, too.

Not that Malcolm is a stranger to it. Plenty of his past partners loved to rip into him just to watch him heal as they dragged him over the edge, as they used him without remorse. Sometimes he even craves it, mostly when everything becomes too much. Jake could give him this. Could incapacitate him and fuck him right here on the mat. “Sorry,” Malcolm says, accidentally letting his act slip a little. The small burst of glee in his voice just enrages Jake more. “I thought I was supposed to defend myself.” _Come at me again_ , he thinks. _Come on, Jake._

As soon as the opportunity arises, as soon as Malcolm turns, purposefully leaving himself open, Jake is back on him with a swift kick to the back of his knee. Malcolm gasps as his knees hit the floor. The pain is so pleasant in the moment, but he can’t revel in it, because the trainer immediately grabs his forearm with one hand and his shoulder with the other, pulling back to keep him in place. Jake could do real damage in the short term. 

“Fucking rich boy,” Jake grunts as he uses his grip to throw Malcolm face down on the mat once again. He absolutely _reeks_ of arousal now. “Submit,” he demands. When he gets no response, he worms his arms under Malcolm’s chin, holding him tight, cutting into his air supply just enough to be uncomfortable. “Submit!”

But Malcolm tilts his head in the hold to meet Jake’s eyes. He can feel the man’s erection against him, can _smell_ how close he is to snapping and fucking him right here and now, and the incubus can’t help but loosening his hold on his allure a little more. He chuckles when Jake’s pupils dilate. _Just a little closer_ , he thinks. Then he could meet his lips, too, and siphon off some of that aggression. Jake could bruise him up as much as he wants if Malcolm could just get a little taste —

Someone clears their throat. Loudly. 

Jake scrambles back, face twisting in confusion. The arousal is still there, his cock visibly straining against his shorts, but it’s not as strong. “What the fuck?” His head whips around to look at Gil. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Lieutenant Gil Arroyo,” he says flatly. “He’s my profiler, if you were wondering.”

Off to the side, Malcolm pulls himself to his knees. He must have overestimated how far he could coast on his night with the Tarmels if he was ready to feed on the asshole. He’s also feeling all of the bruises Jake gave him. He rubs his throat while he takes stock of himself. Fuck, if Gil was already disgusted by him before, _this_ certainly isn’t going to help.

Malcolm lets Gil wrangle Jake in for questioning.

~

The case comes first. Of course it does, and Malcolm knew that it would. They certainly couldn’t talk about the growing tension between them before they finished with Jake. Even if he was a fae, it still wouldn’t be the time. Then there’s all the paperwork, the team discussion with Dani, bringing all of them up to speed with each other’s work. 

Knowing all of that doesn’t make the waiting easier. After his actions at the gym, it’s likely that Gil will decide to end their consulting arrangement. Maybe he’ll even bring up the inappropriateness of his actions, and this time, Malcolm won’t be able to argue. He did nearly feed on a suspect. A _human_ suspect, while he was on duty. The Ash won’t be happy about that, either. One little slip and they would have had to alter the memories of an entire gym’s worth of people. 

He must look terrible, because Dani comes up to him when they have a moment.

“Why are you still here?” Wincing, she reframes her question. “Shouldn’t you go feed?” 

He glances over at where Gil is releasing Jake. “Is it that obvious?”

She shrugs. “You looked a lot perkier earlier.”

Malcolm snorts. “I do need to feed. Unfortunately, I promised Gil I wouldn’t leave until we finished up here.”

“If you need something…” She hesitates.

“Then I’ll tell Gil.” Or suffer in silence, most likely. “I’d never feed off of you, Dani. It’s too dangerous, and I like you too much.” He gives her a weak smile.

Brushing shoulders, she returns it. “You’re alright, too. I _guess_.”

~

Gil does come up to him eventually, after he’s already sent Dani home. “With me, Bright.” It’s hard to parse just how he’s feeling other than tense. Usually, it wouldn’t be a problem.

Of course, Malcolm usually isn’t on this side of his less positive moods. He trudges after the werewolf and quietly gets into the passenger side of the Le Mans. But they aren’t headed to the loft. Or Gil’s apartment. Not even his childhood home or the Ash’s compound. “Gil, where are you taking me?”

“You need to feed,” the werewolf snaps.

Malcolm focuses on the streets as they go by. He’s only been there a handful of times and never from this direction. “The Tarmels’?” he says, bewildered. There’s no reason for him to go there, especially not tonight. Last he heard, Tally and JT were taking advantage of his day off to have a date night. They wouldn’t even be home right now.

“You need to feed,” Gil repeats. He glances at Malcolm, exasperated. “Where _else_ would I take you, kid?”

Malcolm grits his teeth. After the fallout from the first and _only_ time he fell into bed with the couple, he’s kept it completely platonic with them. He learned his lesson about sleeping with Gil’s team, hadn’t he? “It was a one time deal,” he says flatly. “Take me to my loft.”

Gil’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough that the creak of it submitting to his hands is audible in the car. “Dammit, Malcolm, you’re not in the shape to go clubbing!” There’s a hint of a growl in his voice.

“Is that an order?” Malcolm keeps his tone even. He’s so _tired_. “I’m not in your pack anymore, Gil. You can’t tell me what to do and expect me to listen.”

All of the fight leaves Gil in an instant, and the sheer grief on his face makes him look closer to his actual age. “You never did,” he murmurs, turning onto more familiar streets, taking him back to the loft. He’s quiet for the rest of the short drive. He doesn’t even say a word when he turns the engine off and follows Malcolm up to the loft.

Malcolm’s wary, but he lets him. He plops down on the edge of his bed, feeling all of the bruises on his body as it finally relaxes, in his own territory again. His emotional walls, however, are still on high alert. “Is this the part where you warn me you’ll be telling the Ash?”

Gil’s brow creases. He shakes his head. “The Ash already knows you don’t feed enough.” He stands a few feet away from the bed, looming, protective almost, though Malcolm guesses it’s more about keeping an eye on him nowadays. 

“I almost fed on a human tonight, remember?” He huffs a laugh. 

“Only because you were running on fumes.” Gil rubs a hand across his mouth. “What happened with you and the Tarmels, kid? You still smell like them, so I figured they were…” He waves his hand awkwardly.

Malcolm scoffs. “I smell like them, because we play pool a few times a week after work. I enjoy spending time with them. Unless you _don’t_ want me making friends with your pack?” Fuck, if he can’t even have _that_ , he won’t bother contacting the Ash for a new job. He’ll contact him for recommendations. The FBI won’t have him back, but maybe he can get a job at a precinct elsewhere, in another fae community. Somewhere he can go and process the fact that the things he thought he’d have forever are crumbling beneath his feet. 

“You _are_ pack,” Gil growls, almost taking a step forward but then rethinking it and putting his foot back down. “I don’t know why you think you aren’t, kid. _Malcolm_. You’ve been pack since the day I met you, and nothing will change that.”

“Not even the fact that I’m an adult incubus like my father?” Malcolm looks up at him, daring him to say something. Every single time Gil has chastised him lately, it’s been related to his nature. _Clearly_ , it bothers the werewolf. 

“You’re not your father,” Gil says immediately, firmly. He believes it. This time he does take a step closer.

Malcolm shakes his head. “Just an incubus with a penchant for being ‘inappropriate’ at work, right?”

“I never should have said that.” His eyes shut tiredly. “I’m just — I’m worried about you. You come in half starved. You _almost_ slipped today. You need to feed more often, Malcolm.”

“I should,” the incubus agrees, because he does know just how close he came to draining Jake today. He knows he isn’t at his strongest or in the most control when he hasn’t fed. But it’s not easy in a city where it wouldn’t take much to connect him with young Malcolm Whitly, where many fae would refuse to interact with him based solely on that. He needs to pick long term partners carefully here. “I haven’t had time to make arrangements yet.” 

“So what’re you doing tonight? Going back to the club?” Gil says neutrally, looking over at the living room rather than at Malcolm now. 

Malcolm winces as he pulls his shirt off. “You said it yourself, Gil. I need to feed.” He’ll have to wear something looser than he usually does for clubbing. Maybe something that covers more, too, because his bruises are already blooming large and gnarly on his arms and neck. Although he hasn’t taken his pants off yet, he’s sure his knees will be the worst. He doesn’t make a move to get up and do so. He just sits there and breathes.

“Feed on me.” The words echo in the silent loft, tempting and dangerous, loaded with all sorts of consequences that Malcolm doesn’t want to dwell on. Gil still isn’t looking directly at him.

“ _Why?_ ” In addition to all of the bruises Jake left him with, it’s starting to feel like he has whiplash. Why in the world would Gil agree to be fed on? Wasn’t he disapproving of him using his powers? Disgusted enough by Malcolm’s night with the Tarmels? Nevermind the fact that Gil has never reacted to his flirting. The werewolf shouldn’t want to have sex with him, not even to heal him. 

Unless that’s it. He doesn’t want to, but he’ll suffer through it to get Malcolm back into peak condition. Malcolm hands curl into frustrated fists at his side. 

“I have more than enough energy for you to take without weakening me,” Gil says simply. It’s true. Werewolves have plenty. 

Fuck if he isn’t considering it, too. In a way, this is what he’s wanted for _years_. He wanted Gil to want him back, of course, and he imagined it would be less for his health and more because of their love for each other. Not that that would ever happen. “Gil —” He has no idea what to even say. 

“It’s safer than going to the clubs.” Walking closer, Gil crouches in front of him and meets his eyes. “You won’t hurt me, and you won’t have to worry about me finding out about your father.” He smiles wryly. “We have the same schedule, too.” The smile mellows out. 

_Say no_ , his mind screams at him. _You’ll only fuck your head up more._ The thought of having sex with Gil, knowing that his feelings aren’t reciprocated, is heartwrenching. He shouldn’t do it. He _can’t_. His eyes slide shut, and he breathes. “Okay.”

Gil tentatively puts a hand on his thigh, deftly avoiding the knees, reminding Malcolm that he had to watch most of the encounter with Jake. 

Will the werewolf assume he likes it rough? Malcolm’s not sure he could do rough, not with Gil. Not like he was imagining with Jake. 

“Lay back.”

Malcolm does. He shivers as calloused fingers hook into the waistband of both his pants and boxer briefs and ease them down and off. He’s completely nude now, laid out on the bed for Gil to take in. 

There’s a soft sound as his clothes are deposited in the hamper. “Can you move up on the bed, kid?”

It hurts his arms a little, but Malcolm manages to get himself to the middle of the mattress. His cock is already stiffening in anticipation, barely affected by his mental turmoil. He watches Gil methodically remove his watch, shoes, and clothing one piece at a time until he’s standing there in his boxers. Malcolm bites his cheek. There’s a smattering of gray hairs on his chest, interspersed among their darker counterparts. The trail of hair leading beneath his boxers is similarly colored. 

The mattress dips when Gil climbs on. With a gentle hand, he helps Malcolm shift onto his side. “Where are your supplies?” he murmurs, fingertips ghosting where Jake gripped his forearm. He pulls away to grab the lube.

Malcolm bites back a groan as two slick fingers find his hole. He grips the sheets in front of him. “I don’t need much prep,” he says once he can catch his breath. 

The fingers massage the ring of muscle, which loosens at the touch. “Okay.” Gil keeps it short and simple, making sure he’s lubed up instead of worrying about stretching him out too much. Soon enough, he pulls his fingers away.

Malcolm hears the click of the lube bottle and a slick, wet noise before the blunt head of what is unmistakably a cock nudges at his hole, Gil’s fingers brushing against his cheeks. Another hand eases his leg up for better leverage. Then, he’s being breached. He breathes with it, screwing his eyes shut and splitting his focus on the slow slide and the effort of keeping quiet. When Gil is fully seated, the heat of his body simmering next to Malcolm’s, he can’t hold back a gasp. 

“You okay?” Gil asks, voice rough. 

He nods frantically. “Move.” The sooner this is over, the sooner Gil can leave, the sooner Malcolm can curl up and hate himself for it. “ _Please_.” He already hates how good it feels. He knew Gil would be thick. He knew he would run hotter than most other fae. He knew the experience would leave him a mess. 

And Gil does move. Not fast, not punishing or frantic, but slow and gentle. His cock slides smoothly in and out of Malcolm’s greedy hole as he edges him into an orgasm.

It won’t take long at all, because his own dick is twitching against his stomach with every thrust, leaking profusely without even being touched. Little moans and whimpers escape his clenched jaw. When Gil readjusts and finds his prostate, he can’t help but be loud.

“Good boy,” Gil murmurs, almost absentmindedly, and aims his thrusts there every time. “Can you stroke yourself for me?”

Pulling his fingers from the ripples he made in the sheets with his grip, Malcolm wraps them around his cock and jerks himself in time with Gil’s hips. His precome quickly makes the motion smooth and easy. 

“When you’re ready,” Gil murmurs again. 

As if given permission, as if his body is trying to please the wolf behind him, Malcolm comes hot and messy against his chest, against the mattress. He bites his tongue on Gil’s name. There’s a brief taste of blood, but the bite heals instantly, and he realizes that all of his bruises have, too. He still could use more energy —

Gil groans into his shoulder as he lets Malcolm’s clenching body bring him over the edge. His breath is hot against his skin. His hips are flush against his ass. 

Malcolm closes his no doubt glowing eyes and tries to hold himself together. His body feels _amazing_ , brimming with new energy, completely healed. 

After a moment of being connected, the werewolf pulls out, padding to the bathroom to clean himself up and get a wet cloth for Malcolm. He gently wipes his come away from the incubus’ puffy hole. He hovers awkwardly by the bed.

“Thank you,” Malcolm croaks, not looking over his shoulder. He needs Gil to leave now, or he won’t be able to hold back the tears. 

“Okay, kid,” Gil says quietly. There’s a rustling as he puts his clothes back on. He rests a hand on Malcolm’s shoulder, stroking the soft skin with his thumb. “I’ll call you when we have a case.” He takes his time leaving, but eventually, the door closes.

Still naked, still slowly leaking the remnants of Gil’s come, Malcolm curls up and cries, cursing himself for giving in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for nearly missing posting this today, whoops! I fell asleep in the middle of the day and then spent the evening cranking out the last chapter of my Vijay/Malcolm fic 😅


	4. Alone Time

Every single time, Malcolm tells himself it will be the last. He’ll get back to his research and find some other fae to sate his hunger. He’ll stop agreeing whenever Gil comments on it, offers to top him off. He’ll end up in closets or closed offices or tangled sheets with someone else. He’ll hate himself somewhat less. 

Every single time, he says yes. 

Gil fucks him on his desk at the precinct once or twice. Malcolm kneels for him in closets and empty file rooms more often. Most cases end with the werewolf climbing the steps to the loft behind him, following him into the bedroom area, and pressing him into the mattress to heal all of the scrapes and bruises he may have acquired. It’s impersonal. They never fuck face to face. And Malcolm doesn’t really want to, not like _this_ , not when Gil is just taking care of him so that he’s in decent shape for his consulting. He needs the option to imagine that the thick cock piercing him so _right_ belongs to a stranger. He can close his eyes and forget that the warm hands on his hips are anyone’s but the man he loves’. 

Nevermind that he’s unable to do any of that regardless. Malcolm always comes with Gil’s name clenched between his teeth, hidden in the blood that wells up from his lip or cheek, and he snaps down on it, holding it back desperately. Behind him, Gil always murmurs a steady stream of encouragements, suggestions, anything and everything. None of it seems planned, more like he barely knows what he’s saying. Occasionally, he’ll slip in a _Malcolm_ or _kid_ , but most of the time it’s all generic. Like Malcolm could be switched out for anyone. Like he’s just a warm body Gil can lose himself in. Maybe he _has_ to distance himself like that to do it. 

Maybe he’s never thought of Malcolm this way at all, and it’s just some sort of fucked up pack duty to keep him fed.

Malcolm quickly learns how to force back the tears at the precinct. At the loft, he still lets himself fall apart the moment Gil is gone. There, at least, he can. 

Somehow he manages. October drifts into November, and November slips into December. He gets caught up in everything else in his fucked up life — Ainsley’s interview, the Junkyard Killer, Colette, _hell_ , even his mother’s Christmas plans take up his time. He fills his days up with so much that he has to push off his little breakdowns until he’s in his loft alone. 

He’s confident that no one notices. After all, he’s looking healthier than he has in years. Even while he was an agent, he didn’t keep himself so consistently fed as he is now. He almost tells Gil that he doesn’t need this much, but he can’t. He can’t bring himself to say anything that could cost him the little shreds of his dreams he’s clutching onto. It doesn’t quite help his mental state, of course, but everyone around him assumes that _all_ of his mental turmoil is rooted in his childhood, in his father’s secrets, in Paul Lazar, in the Girl in the Box. None of them, not even Gil, consider the other options. 

And if it pushes him to be a smidge more reckless than usual, they’re used to that, too. No one seems too bothered. He’s feeding enough to heal from just about anything, right? So he doesn’t hesitate to follow Shannon to the Watkins house that night. Malcolm’s aware that John Watkins is fae, having felt the powerful edge of his aura that day in the sewers, and he’s expecting the man’s grandmother will be fae, too. 

She is. Her aura is similar, obviously the same kind of fae as her beloved grandson, but it’s dampened by her age and health enough that he relaxes some. He was initially worried about Shannon, an oblivious human through and through. Now, Malcolm’s confident he can protect him should the old woman become enraged. 

They let her show them the lower floor of the house. They let her feed them frozen meals. They let her pull out the scratched out family album and go on and on about her sweet, sweet grandson. She’s a nice, if not horribly misguided, woman, and Malcolm initially chalks it all up to her not knowing John’s real nature. Hadn’t everyone praised the well mannered Doctor Whitly before his arrest? 

Lured in and feeling _stupidly_ confident, he leaves Shannon at the table with her while he pokes around. 

There’s no sign of John’s face or nature in his old room. It’s frustrating to not know what to expect, but his only other option is to ask his father, and Malcolm has no intention of doing that. The closet, on the other hand, tells him plenty about _Mrs. Watkins_ ’ nature. Not her fae nature. No, just the horrible abusive core she hides with her sweet veneer. He feels sick looking at the deep gouges in the wall, the reinforced door. Whatever she and her grandson are, they’re _strong_. 

Malcolm walks down the stairs on shaky legs. He’s a force to be reckoned with when he’s fed, but he has nothing on fae whose very natures lend them extra strength. 

Shannon is dead at the table.

Mrs. Watkins shrieks at him, calls him _a filthy incubus, a nasty whoreish being_. She spits that her John will take care of him. He’ll crush the sin inside him. 

It’s not a smart decision, of course, but Malcolm races to find him. John _had_ to have been there moments before. If Malcolm is quick enough, he might be able to find him before he can escape. He runs out into the brisk New York night. His eyes flit around looking for any hint of him. 

Something slams into his head, and Malcolm crumples to the ground. 

~

He _hurts_. He doesn’t remember a single thing after being hit, but clearly he sustained more damage in the meantime. Groaning, Malcolm manages to roll over onto his back, the cuffs and chains rattling loudly in the small space. He catalogues the damages. His head is throbbing, of course, and when he reaches a hand up to gently prod it, his hair is matted. The rest of his body feels like one big bruise. 

His shoes are gone. Most of his clothes are, too, leaving him in just his dress shirt and boxer briefs, the shirt unbuttoned, all of it dirty from contact with the cold, grimy ground. He shivers. He doesn’t feel like he’s been touched at all, not in a sexual way, but he still feels _violated_. 

There’s a heavy clang as the door swings open. A muscled man with a full beard and slicked back hair comes in, grinning. “Long time, no see.” John flashes his teeth. “Or, well, it’s been a while since we’ve been in the same room together for a time. The sewers didn’t count.”

Malcolm winces as he pulls himself up into a sitting position. He takes John in, uninterrupted for the first time. There _is_ something familiar about his face, something in the shape of his mouth and the glee in his eyes. His body, however, is sturdy, and combined with his strength and the gouges on the wall in the closet, Malcolm has a sinking feeling he knows just what kind of fae he’s dealing with. “Not since we went camping,” he says calmly. 

“So you _do_ remember,” John crows. He sets up a light and a chair, turning on the former and settling into the latter, still grinning. “You weren’t too good of a boy then.” Huffing a laugh, John lifts the side of his sweater just enough to reveal a series of scars. He lets it drop. “Are you going to be a good boy for me today, little Malcolm? Shouldn’t be hard. No one’s around to hear you scream. It’s just you and me.”

Malcolm licks his dry lips and focuses on widening his eyes, loosening up his tense body. He leans forward a touch and gambles. “I’ve been told I’m a pretty good screamer,” he says coyly. “What would being a good boy get me?”

It doesn’t seem to affect John at all. “Less bruises, I suppose. Besides, being good is its own reward.” He adjusts in his seat, leaning in, too. “You are just like your father, aren’t you? He tried using his fancy ability on me once or twice. Just to test the waters, you know. But _you_ , you’re not subtle about it at all.”

He certainly feels like screaming now. He was hoping his missing pants might mean he had an edge here, but if John isn’t attracted to men, it won’t matter how much of his allure he can pump into the room. If the fae in front of him really is what he suspects he is, Malcolm has little chance of getting out of here.

“Oh, don’t look so scared,” John says, half mocking, half plain joking. “I didn’t bring you here to kill you. I brought you here so that we could be together. _Work_ together. Can’t say I planned on getting you this early, but here we are!” 

Although his breathing seems even, Malcolm knows from experience that the anxiety is building. His chest feels tight, jittery like it’s going to burst. The worst part is that he knows he’s losing energy because of it. His body is drawing on his energy as it desperately tries to calm down. It won’t work, just make him weaker. “Why would I work with you? You can’t make me kill.”

John laughs, big guffaws that shake his entire body. “I could make you,” he says, wiping away a tear. “But I wouldn’t have to. You already have the instinct, Malcolm. Do you not remember the way our camping trip ended?”

He’s starting to. Those scars… Malcolm’s sure _he_ put them there. Not his father. Not the Girl. Malcolm himself. He remembers the weight of the pocket knife in his small hands, remembers how frantic he was when he realized that one stab wouldn’t be enough. He closes his eyes and swallows. “I stabbed you six times.”

“And I’ve got the scars to prove it,” John says jovially. 

Malcolm barely hears him. “I-I had to, because you’re an ogre.” Just as he thought. Ogres don’t look the way humans imagine them in their stories. They blend better than many kinds of fae, actually, with how deceptively _normal_ they look. Underneath the veneer, they’re one of the strongest fae and have the natural protection to back them up in a fight. He _had_ to stab John six times, because the first five barely fazed him. 

Malcolm is _fucked_. “It was self defense,” he murmurs.

“You came at me with the intent to kill,” John corrects. “Your father brought you up to the cabin to kill _you_. We were beginning to think you’d never have what it takes to join us. Then you proved yourself.” He sighs wistfully, eyes drifting away from Malcolm’s face as he thinks back on it. “That day was your making.”

“I’m not a killer,” Malcolm says weakly. His mind is racing. His father wanted to _kill_ him? His head wound throbs especially bad as he dwells on it. 

John stands and crouches in front of him. “Not yet. You have a few trials to go through first.” Before Malcolm can muster a thought, the ogre pulls out his knife and thrusts it into his side. 

Malcolm gasps.

John pulls the blade out. He jabs it back in.

In shock, Malcolm can’t help the way he clutches at the ogre’s shoulders, trying to ground himself as he’s stabbed a total of six times, one after the other.

~

He wakes up face down on the floor. He doesn’t try to move.

“Hey kid.”

Malcolm opens his eyes blearily. Gil is crouched in front of him, concern etched in every crease of his face. “Gil,” he sighs. 

But when the werewolf gives him a sad look, not making any attempt at helping him up or to touch him, it becomes obvious that something is _off_.

“You’re not real,” Malcolm says hollowly. “John still has me, doesn’t he?”

Gil nods. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to need more than a blow job after this, city boy.” 

“I’m not sure there will be an _after this_.” He’s chilly, no doubt from the blood loss, though it seems like the way he landed on the floor did put pressure on the wounds. It doesn’t matter. He’ll never kill for John, and so John will end up killing him. 

“Focus on protecting yourself,” Gil urges. “Stop the bleeding. Don’t taunt him. We can find out what happened to the Girl together once you’ve gotten out of this.”

Malcolm stares at him, corners of his mouth tugging up. “Funny. Usually my hallucinations aren’t so positive.” Doing his best to ignore the searing pain the action causes him, he shifts until he’s sitting up. He rips a length of fabric off of his dress shirt and presses it to his wounds with a grunt. “I’m probably going to bleed out here. I don’t even know if you’ll be able to find my corpse.”

“I’ll find you,” Gil insists. He reaches out as if to touch him. His hand drops.

This could be the last time Malcolm sees him. Not the real Gil, of course, because he’s alert enough to realize he’s all alone right now, but it still feels just as devastating. He looks at the hallucination fondly. “I’ll still love you even if you don’t.”

Then the door opens. John walks in and retakes his seat, smiling at the sight of Malcolm sitting up, conscious and aware. “I knew you would survive this. We’re meant to work together, you and I.”

“I’m far from healed,” Malcolm says flatly. “I could still bleed to death.”

John waves it off. “You’ll live. You’re as stubborn as your father. Clever, too.” He eyes the way Malcolm holds his side, the way his shirt is missing a chunk on the other side. 

“My mother’s stubborn, too.” Malcolm forces a smirk on his face. He can’t ignore the pang of doubt he feels. Won’t he always be his father’s son? “When she finds out you’ve kidnapped me, she won’t spare any expense to find me.” She won’t. She’ll likely scream at him for being so stupid as to go to the Watkins house without much backup, but she’ll do what she can to help Gil find him. 

It doesn’t faze John. In fact, he grins wider. “Your father always was a family man. Looks like you share his weaknesses, too.” He stands and stretches, grabbing an axe from his bag of tools. “I think I’ve decided on your final trial, little Malcolm. Let’s see if you can rise from the ashes of your loved ones.”

Malcolm screams after him, but John just laughs. It echoes down the hall.

_Echoes…_ just like the sound he keeps hearing in the background. The sound he brushed off as water. He slams his free hand on the ground with another yell as he realizes where he is. 

“Kid…” And just like that, Gil is back.

“I’m under my own house. My _territory_ ,” Malcolm hisses at the figment of his fractured mind. “ _Don’t_ tell me to calm down.”

The werewolf looks at him solemnly. “You know I’m doing all I can to find you.”

“That’s not what he needs right now,” his father says from behind him.

Malcolm whips his head around and clenches his jaw. 

“You need to get out of those cuffs, my boy.” His father looks unbothered. If that isn’t a sign he’s a hallucination, Malcolm doesn’t know what would be. The real Martin Whitly would be _seething_ to know John was going after his wife and daughter. “I’m not sure the boys in blue will get here to save our family in time. It’s up to you to show him an incubus can do more than feed.”

“I’m cuffed,” he bites out. John made sure they were good and tight, the chains too thick and the cuffs themselves too durable to be broken out of easily. None of the things Gil or the FBI taught him about escaping bonds will help him today. 

“No pain, no gain,” his father tells him, pointedly looking at the bag of tools John left behind. 

It really is the only way. Malcolm manages to reach a hammer. He grits his teeth and braces himself.

“You can do this,” Gil says quietly. He’s not real, he’s not, but the confidence in his voice is what Malcolm needs.

He howls as he shatters the bones in his hand.

~

His childhood home is anything but quiet. He can hear John taunting his mother and sister. He can also hear the bursts of siren whistling, pitched high enough to stop most fae and human alike in their tracks. Being an ogre, Malcolm suspects that John will have some resistance to it, though it sounds like his mother is giving it her all. 

The lack of a second whistle is concerning. He walks faster, using a crowbar as a crutch, hoping that Ainsley is just injured. He stops when he catches sight of the Box. His head throbs. He straightens up and makes his decision.

Perhaps a minute later, he hobbles closer to the stairs. “John,” he screams. “We aren’t done!”

The ogre’s laugh echoes through the house.

“Malcolm,” his mother cries, sounding out of breath. To her credit, the whistling starts up immediately after. 

“You’re in _my_ territory!” He grips the crowbar tighter. “You face _me_!”

As soon as he can hear the ogre moving, Malcolm hobbles away to set the next part of his plan in action.

It’s not hard. John comes down the steps, manic grin on his face and axe in hand, and the first thing he sees as he looks around for the incubus is the Box. His axe lowers as he stares at it. He plods forward towards it. 

And Malcolm strikes. He rears back and smashes the crowbar over the ogre’s head. It won’t do much more than stun him, of course, but that gives him enough time to grip the chain still attached to his undamaged wrist and whip it around John’s neck. 

John grabs for it and pulls it away, the links bending under his hand. 

Malcolm doesn’t let himself be startled. He slams the crowbar into John’s face. He keeps going, hitting him over and over again, no breaks in between, no room for error. 

When the ogre roars at him, face bloodied, he whips the chain around again and pulls it taut.

It takes several agonizing minutes for John to lose consciousness. 

With a pained grunt, Malcolm hauls him into the Box and shuts it, locking it and sitting on top of it. All of his pain rises to the top of his mind. His head is aching. His side is a mess of sharp hurt. 

“ _Malcolm_ ,” his mother cries, rushing into the room, pulling a bleeding Ainsley with her. 

Ainsley cries out when she sees him, too. She stumbles and sits on the chest with him, hugging him tightly. 

He leans into her and looks up at their mother. “Are you okay?”

She sobs and pulls the two of them into her arms. 

~

The good news is that Gil, JT, and Dani are on their way. The bad news is that so is the FBI team. With the strings Gil had to pull, the favors he had to ask of Colette, there was no way _not_ to involve them. Anywhere he went they would have been on his tail. 

Malcolm understands that, he really does. Working for the FBI always meant being careful about his nature. Not every agent was fae, and very few humans in the Bureau were in the know. When he was on a case involving a fae, he had to handle it extremely delicately just to keep the secret from his human coworkers. 

Of course, he usually wasn’t as injured as he is now. He can’t go to the regular hospital. Which means that Colette can’t see how injured he is. Despite their issues, he knows she won’t hesitate to call an ambulance for him if she realizes just how fucked up he is. His mother brings him the table runner from the dining room, and together, they carefully wrap it around his still bleeding midsection so that he doesn’t have to hold the scraps of shirt on himself anymore. Ainsley’s head wound gets a little care, too. 

Unlike Malcolm, however, she _will_ have to go to the hospital. They’ve already notified the Ash that they would be visiting the compound for healing as soon as they finish with the reports and that Gil would be unavailable for the rest of the night — at _least_. The Ash took care to notify his contacts at the Bureau about just what kind of prisoner they were taking in.

Malcolm blinks blearily and tries to smile when he sees the werewolf push his way in front of the FBI team. He’s not sure what exactly happened between him and Colette, but she holds her tongue. 

Gil stops right in front of him, in front of the chest with John still trapped inside. His eyes travel down Malcolm’s body, doing a quick scan of his injuries, and what he sees deepens the creases on his face. After a split second’s hesitation, he cups Malcolm’s cheek. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you again, kid,” he murmurs, pained.

Malcolm pointedly doesn’t mention his hallucination. 

Not that he gets the chance to, because Gil leans in and kisses him softly. 

It’s the first time they’ve ever kissed. Usually, Malcolm feeds solely off of the sexual contact. He’s wanted to kiss Gil for years, of course, but when Gil never initiated it, he got the message. Or thought he did. Malcolm’s eyes slip shut, hiding the blue glow as he takes a little energy in. He whimpers into it. It’s only enough to dull the aches and pains. He’ll need much more if he’s going to get to a hundred percent again. 

Colette clears her throat.

Malcolm’s heart sinks as they separate. Ah. _Right_. This is why Gil kissed him. He needs to last through whatever questions she has. Pasting a smile on his face, he meets her eyes. “Ask what you need to, Special Agent.”

Surprisingly, she brushes the offer off. “I expect a report sometime tomorrow. You still know my email, don’t you?” There’s almost something like concern in her eyes for a moment, and then it’s gone. “I’ll also need an in-person interview. We’ll be around for a few more days.”

He nods. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready.”

She moves on to his sister and mother. 

He’s still so shocked that Gil has to pull him away from the Box when some of the other agents come to collect it and John. He wobbles on his feet, but the werewolf is plenty strong enough to support them both. Together, they walk out towards the entry hall.

JT and Dani are there, practically vibrating with nerves. They both relax a degree as soon as they see him alive, if not well. JT is the first to approach them, though his eyes shift to Gil and then back to Malcolm before he opens his mouth. 

“You’re a crazy fucker, you know that, right?” JT shakes his head. “I still expect to see you at pool this week if the Boss is gonna take care of you tonight.”

Gil stares him down. “I am.”

JT returns the look and nods. “Good. I’m heading home to let Tally know you’re still kicking, Bright.”

Malcolm manages a smile. 

“He’s my ride, so I’ll keep this short,” Dani says, pointing at the door her partner just walked through. “I’m glad you’re alive. Try not to scare us like that again, okay?” And then she’s gone. 

They follow, Gil supporting him the whole way to the Le Mans. 

~

When they get to the loft, whatever energy Malcolm managed to take from him is wearing off. He’s feeling lightheaded again. He’s so tired that the throbbing of his head and side are the only things keeping him awake. 

Gil has to scoop him up from the passenger seat and carry him up the steps. Not bothering with the blood and dirt still on his clothes, he gently deposits the incubus on the bed. “We can wash the sheets,” he promises, his wry smile shaky. He kicks his shoes off and rips his jacket off before joining him.

“Hey,” Malcolm slurs. “I think I need —”

“I know,” Gil says as he carefully pulls him closer and meets his lips. This kiss is slower but just as delicate. He stubbornly keeps it up until Malcolm has enough energy to reach over and cling to him weakly. They kiss softly for another minute or two before he finally pulls back. “You with me again?” He strokes Malcolm’s face while he waits for an answer. 

“I think so,” Malcolm jokes. He’s more awake again, and the pain is dulling slowly. It’s still just a temporary fix. He needs _more_ of something, be it makeouts or sex, before his body heals enough for him to stop sliding back to where they started. “Please, Gil.”

Gil kisses him again, long and slow. Then, slipping out of bed briefly, he grabs the lube and drops it onto the bed next to Malcolm. He rejoins him with another kiss.

The eerie blue glow of Malcolm’s half-lidded eyes stands out in the dark loft. 

Careful not to disturb his wounds, the werewolf removes the tattered button down slowly. An anguished sound rises in the back of his throat at the sight of the stained table runner around his stomach. He doesn’t disturb it just yet, though his fingers skim along the edge of it. He kisses the skin above it.

Malcolm sighs. Just having Gil above him is making him feel better. Maybe if he wasn’t still banged up he’d ask him to hurry up, but tonight he’s content to be put back together chunk by chunk, kiss by kiss. He’s still drunk off his first taste of Gil’s lips. 

When Gil pulls down his boxer shorts, he’s just as gentle as he has been all night. He kisses a hip, a thigh, a calf. He settles between bare legs and plants his hands on either side of Malcolm’s head, leaning in to lock their lips once more before he sits back on his knees to quickly tug all of his own clothes off. “Malcolm?”

The incubus looks up at him, taking his naked body in for the first time. He never bothered before, because he knew it would only pain him further, that his dreams would be more detailed and even more devastating every time he was pulled away from them. Spreading his legs a touch, he gives him what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Fuck me, Gil.”

Gil’s eyes shut. He breathes deep. Then, grabbing the lube again, he does the minimum amount of prep, just trying to get Malcolm good and slick. He hovers over him again, this time only one arm planted on the bed next to his head. The other hand is wrapped around his cock. He nudges his way inside, and then both of his arms are bracing him as he slowly seats himself. His kiss this time is desperate.

The way Gil fits in him, slots right in and fills him up — it’s _perfect_. Malcolm groans into his mouth. There’s a certain appeal to being fucked from behind, but there’s a part of him that’s been dreaming of making love face to face with this werewolf for _years_. He can’t imagine it’s anyone else within him now. He doesn’t _want_ to. Wrapping one leg around Gil’s hip, he weakly urges him on. 

This time is even more gentle than their first, if possible. Gil is careful not to touch his stomach, and every thrust is a slow, torturous glide designed not to jostle his slowly healing woulds. And they _are_ healing slowly. They’re deep, dirty, numerous. His body needs more than usual to snap back. The head injury seems to be the first to ease from the push of Gil’s cock. From the energy in the air. Malcolm moans as he feels the skin knit back together. He grasps at the werewolf’s back and lets more of his recovering allure fill the room. 

Gil growls, no doubt smelling the stronger tang of lust. He latches onto Malcolm’s neck as his thrusts grow a touch faster, harder. 

This, too, is new. Usually, Malcolm holds back, not wanting to use his abilities on Gil, half scared they wouldn’t even _work_. He holds Gil’s head there with a shaky hand. He knows the hickey will heal by the time they’re done, but suddenly, he _needs_ to be marked. Hasn’t he stayed monogamous from the very first time they fucked on this bed? He’s been Gil’s for months now. 

Malcolm shudders, painting them both white at the very thought. His back arches and his eyes flare when Gil spills into him, too, his sharp teeth grazing the sensitive skin of his shoulder. It’d be perfect if not for the way the air is knocked out of him by his lover’s body sinking on top of his own. His stomach wounds are still there, and it _hurts_.

Gil practically flies off of him, settling back on his knees, softening cock slipping from his hole. “Shit,” he mutters. Tentatively, he reaches for the table runner, which is already spotting red with fresh blood. A hand on his stops him. 

“I’ll be fine,” Malcolm rasps, his voice raw with pain. He clears his throat. 

“I’m supposed to be _healing_ you, kid.” His cock, shiny slick with lube and come, softens more. Gil grimaces. 

“You _are_.” 

But the werewolf just glances down at the red-stained cloth again. 

Malcolm frowns. “I’d be dead now if you weren’t here.” He pushes himself up onto his elbows with some effort. “I was stabbed six times,” he admits quietly and then huffs a laugh. “And I only made it worse when I broke my own hand and ran around the house.” 

Of course it’s the wrong thing to say. Instead of being reassured, Gil takes in his swollen hand — an injury he didn’t notice in his rush — and shuts his eyes in shame. 

Malcolm tightens his grip on Gil’s hand. “Point is,” he says firmly, “it’s going to take a lot more than one orgasm to heal me.” He bites his lip. “Will you at least kiss me again?”

It doesn’t require an answer, and Gil doesn’t give it. He leans down again, careful not to put pressure on any wounds, and kisses him. He sticks to kisses for a minute or two. Each one feels like an apology. A promise. 

Feeling Gil grow hard again, Malcolm can’t help but loosen his control on his allure again to give him a hand. He’s pulling him closer with his good hand, digging into his back, scratching him up good and proper. The air is thick with his lust. Every drag he takes off Gil’s lips makes him bolder. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he demands when they break to breathe. He knows his voice is resonating oddly, leaking his allure. 

And Gil does. The werewolf pushes into his pliant hole and thrusts as hard as he dares. He lets Malcolm egg him on, although he never moves faster than he thinks he should, ever careful. He fucks him through another orgasm. 

Malcolm’s wrists, raw and red from John’s restraints, lighten until the marks disappear. 

Gil hauls his legs up onto his shoulders for the next round. He snaps his hips as the incubus claws at the bed with both hands, bones knitting together as he gasps and moans. There are holes in the sheets by the time Gil growls and unloads in his already sloppy ass. He barely pauses before starting up again. The haze of lust around him keeps him ready and raring to go. 

The sheets won’t be washed. They’ll be _tossed_. Come leaks out and down underneath him with every thrust. The small rips from his fingers gradually grow into full on tears. The headboard slams into the wall as Gil grips his hips for leverage. 

Malcolm is siphoning so much energy off of him. Even his abdomen is feeling better by the minute, the individual stab wounds sealing up at a slow, steady pace, but it’s barely putting a dent in the werewolf’s stride. He naturally has so much energy to give, regardless of his age, and Malcolm takes. And takes. And takes. 

After his fifth orgasm, Gil has to brace himself. Sweat drips off of his forehead, and his muscles strain with the effort of staying upright. But, glancing down at the table runner again, he forces himself up with a grunt and tries for a sixth despite how low his energy is beginning to dip. 

The pace is slower this time. The cock inside of him is as hard as ever, but Malcolm is becoming more and more aware of how the rest of Gil is flagging. He’s still wounded, still so low on his own reserves, still _starving_ despite the mess of come on and in him. “Pull out,” he says reluctantly.

Gil does, arching a brow, chest heaving with effort.

Malcolm shifts and tugs him down to the mattress, knocking the wind out of him. He rolls them both over. “Gil?” he says, a silent question in his tone and on his face.

The werewolf gives him a tired smile and laces their fingers together. “Take what you need, kid.”

Not letting go, Malcolm lifts himself up and uses his free hand to line Gil up where he needs him. He drops down. Both of them groan. He pulls their joined hands up to his mouth and lays a kiss on tanned knuckles. Then he starts. He rides Gil like he was meant to, because he _was_ meant to, his hips rolling and his hole clenching in a way that has Gil snapping up into him as best he can. He drags his blunt nails down his chest, through salt and pepper hair. His eyes are vibrant, unearthly. He rips an orgasm out of both of them this way.

Gil’s sharp teeth gnash together as he holds Malcolm down to the root. He’s still strong, even weakened like this. 

Smirking, Malcolm slips his fingers under the hastily tucked table runner and deftly loosens it. It pools around his hips to reveal the shallowest of wounds. He tosses it off the bed along with the shirt scraps it held in. His stomach is still red, caked with a layer of blood like his scalp is, but it’s nothing but the remnants of what _was_. 

Just a little more energy. A little more to encourage his skin to knit back together. A little more to fill him up and let him sleep soundly. 

Gil stares up at him, something akin to hunger in his eyes.

So Malcolm snaps his hips again. He fucks himself on Gil’s thick cock, listens to him for once and takes what he _needs_. He loses himself in the haze of need and want and lust. He feeds off of Gil’s animalistic nature. He takes. He shouts as he comes a final time, body still moving in pursuit of his partner’s orgasm, of that last bit of energy. 

Malcolm barely remembers collapsing beside Gil, sweaty and sated and _full_. 

~

Unsurprisingly, he wakes up wired from the sheer amount of energy inside of him. He finds Gil beside him, dead to the world, his face more drawn than usual. A deep pang of regret hits him. He shouldn’t have taken so much. If he hadn’t been reckless in the first place, maybe he wouldn’t have needed to.

He can’t dwell on it. 

Easing out of bed, Malcolm grimaces at how gross he feels. He’s covered in blood and dirt and semen, all of it dry. Gil must be in a similar state, but he won’t wake him just yet. Instead, Malcolm pads over to the bathroom and scrubs himself clean in the shower, making sure to thoroughly clean his hair of blood, too. 

Gil still isn’t awake. 

Malcolm brushes the hair out of the werewolf’s face. He cups his cheek, feeling the goatee under his palm for the first time sober. _Fuck_ , he loves this man. “I’ll always love you,” he murmurs, feeling stupid but needing to all the same. He doubts he’ll ever be able to say it when Gil is awake, and yet, he can’t bring himself to keep it between him and his hallucination. 

Next up, breakfast. There’s not much that Malcolm knows how to make, truthfully. He scrambles all the eggs he has in his fridge, though, throwing some thinly sliced cheese on top and letting it melt from the residual heat in the pan. He puts some bread in the toaster, too. As he’s waiting for it to pop up, he hears the soft sound of the shower starting up, so he throws everything in the oven to keep warm. 

The wait is difficult. He’s not sure what Gil will say. Will he leave as soon as he checks that Malcolm’s healed? No, he realizes guiltily. It’s more likely he’ll be tired, drained, and in need of the protein packed breakfast waiting for him in the oven. Malcolm just hopes he hasn’t royally fucked up the agreement they had. What if Gil finally sees how much _effort_ Malcolm is? 

“Mornin’, city boy,” Gil says, yawning. He drops onto one of the barstools. He looks like he hasn’t slept a wink, but he smiles all the same. “Did I smell eggs?”

Malcolm pulls the pan out of the oven and dishes them up two plates, most of the food on the one he sets in front of Gil. He hesitantly sits next to him. “How are you feeling?”

Gil snorts. “How are _you_ feeling?” He turns his head and lays a hand on Malcolm’s neck, pulling him closer for a quick peck.

It stuns the incubus. He was so sure there wouldn’t be any more kissing now, not with him fully healed and fed. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Gil —”

“I heard you earlier,” Gil interrupts. “I love you so much, Malcolm. When I realized Watkins had you — I nearly lost it.” 

Malcolm licks his lips. “I thought this was just about healing me.”

Now Gil looks away. “I didn’t think you wanted me that way,” he says quietly, “or I would have made my feelings more clear. JT and Dani are already well aware.” He shakes his head. “Hell, kid, I’m sure the Ash knows, too.”

“So when you were mad about me flirting with JT…” Malcolm raises a brow. He’s not sure he _believes_ this, but it might explain how weird Gil acted. Maybe.

Gil looks at him, fond. “You know wolves are possessive. You _reeked_ of JT and Tally.”

Malcolm pushes the eggs around on his plate. “So what does this mean for us?”

“A relationship, if you’re willing,” Gil says bluntly. Like it’s inevitable.

Head still swimming, Malcolm gives him an incredulous look. “You’d let me feed off of you again after last night?”

“Always.” Gil tugs him in for a slow kiss. “I want this with you, Malcolm.”

“Okay,” he blurts out. What else could he say? No? He feels like he’s floating.

Gil smiles. “Okay?”

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Gil.” And he’ll love him for a long time going forward. 

Gil flashes him a fanged grin and kisses him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! For now, at least. I plan to dip back into this 'verse every now and then to cover other episodes like I said in one of the other chapter notes, but this is a wrap on the main story <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is a (somewhat) belated birthday gift for the lovely KateSamantha! I've been feeding her this chunk by chunk since her day, and now I'm finally far enough to comfortably begin editing and posting. Love ya, Kate <3<3


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